


Cracks in the Ice

by Mice



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, First Time, M/M, Pre-Canon, Reichenbach Feels, Sherlock being a dick, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:32:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mice/pseuds/Mice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caring was not an advantage, but Mycroft found that it wasn't exactly voluntary, either. Not when it came to Gregory Lestrade. This is the story of the Iceman's thaw. Art by msaether, commissioned by mystradesexytimes. Thanks so much, my dears!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cracks in the Ice

**Author's Note:**

> Proof-loofa by Random-Nexus. Britpicking by LadyLilyMalfoy. Dialogue transcript from _The Reichenbach Fall_ by arianedevere. All remaining errors and awkwardness are the fault of the slash rodent of doom.

"Your brother's file, sir."

Mycroft looked up from the array of documents he had been examining and took the USB drive from his assistant. He nodded, dismissing her, and plugged it into his computer, opening the morning's Sherlock surveillance report.

As usual, there was very little in it. His brother tended to avoid the CCTV cameras whenever possible. Late last night, however, he appeared in a section of video at a crime scene near a popular West End nightspot. It wasn't the first time Mycroft had seen Sherlock at such scenes but it was the first time one of the officials had actually taken note of him beyond ejecting him. Anonymous tips had tended to work better.

He leaned forward to observe more closely, steepling his fingers before his lips as he rested his elbows on the desk. Their interaction was fascinating. It had taken time, but Sherlock had convinced the DI leading the investigation to allow him to stay at the edge of the scene, just beyond the white and blue tape perimeter. Not only did the detective listen to Sherlock, despite his obvious annoyance, he had actually offered him a cigarette as he lit one for himself. Something had made him listen, had convinced him to give Sherlock a chance. Quite intriguing and entirely unexpected.

The images were grainy but sufficient for an accurate identification. Mycroft chose the clearest of them and summoned his assistant back into his office. Anthea entered with a question in her eyes. "This man," Mycroft said, indicating the detective who spoke with his brother. "I want a file on him by tomorrow morning."

"Of course, sir." She nodded, taking a print of the still with its timestamp and location. "Is there anything else you require?"

"Another cup of tea, I think. This one's gone cold. Thank you, Anthea." Mycroft settled back to examine the rest of last night's file, deep in thought.

***

Greg was exhausted by the time they'd wrapped up at the scene for the night -- 'night' was being used advisedly, as it was dawn when he finally shambled toward his vehicle, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. The call had come just before he'd intended to leave his office for the evening and he'd not been able to go home at all. A domestic had gone horribly wrong, with the man dead of half a dozen stab wounds and a warrant now out for the woman who'd killed him. Not a difficult case to solve, but an awful mess, and a four year old boy abandoned at the scene was the only witness. All Greg wanted was to get home, shower the misery of the night from his skin, and collapse into bed.

There was a sleek black car, heavy and obviously armoured, parked next to the panda Greg had arrived in. As he approached, the rear door opened and a tall, elegant man stepped out. Dark hair with a hint of auburn, slightly receding hairline, he had a sharp face and a long, narrow nose. He looked as if he'd been sucking a lemon, with a thin mouth pinched into an unpleasant smile. He was dressed in a ludicrously expensive charcoal grey three piece suit and a burgundy tie. The chain of a pocket watch draped from a waistcoat button to a pocket. He carried an umbrella, despite the fact that the dawning sky was cloudless and the day promised to be sunny. The aura of government bureaucrat radiating from the man was about as subtle as a charging elephant.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Yeah, that's me. Can I help you with something?" Greg leaned back against the panda, his fag dangling from his mouth, arms crossed, impatient and more than a little disgruntled. "It's been a very long night and I'd really like to get some sleep."

"I have something I wish to discuss with you, preferably in private. I can have you dropped at your flat when we're done. Our conversation should not take terribly long."

"And you are?" He took another puff of his cigarette and flicked the ash away.

The man's grey eyes narrowed, his thin smile tightening. His head hadn't tilted back but the air of looking down his nose intensified. "With the Home Office." And if that wasn't massive bollocking trouble, Greg didn't know what was. He couldn't imagine what he might have done to have the Home Office come fetch him from a crime scene at dawn. This suit didn't look like an errand boy, either. "You're not in any trouble, Inspector, I assure you." An unspoken 'yet' hung in the air between them.

"Wait, how -- never mind. Trouble would have come down the usual chain of command, not through some bloke in a Savile Row suit and an armoured vehicle. So who are you and what do you want?"

"My name is of no consequence. I'm just a minor functionary."

That was likely to go down as the biggest lie he'd heard this month, and he'd heard a hell of a lot of them. Greg could feel the hair on the back of his neck rise. He suppressed a shiver. This was more than a bit not good. "My arse," he muttered. The man's eyebrow rose; he'd heard.

"It's to do with Sherlock Holmes."

"I see. What about him?" Surprising, but maybe not as dire as he'd thought.

"Really, Inspector, this is best discussed in private. Please come with me." The words were a request but the tone most certainly wasn't. Greg weighed his options. It was unlikely anyone would have the guts to actually abduct a DI from a crime scene whilst in plain sight of half his team; despite his nearly twenty years of work with the Met, he didn't think he'd made any enemies of that calibre. On balance, this seemed legitimate, if a bit terrifying. Refusing was likely to get him into more trouble than it was worth. It could get him called on the carpet no matter what he did, so he might as well roll with it and see if he could minimise any damage.

"Right, then. Give me a minute." The man nodded. "Donovan!" Greg shouted. He dropped the butt of his smoke and crushed it out with his foot. His Sergeant looked their way and he gestured her over.

"Yeah, sir?" She eyed the car and the government man.

"Something's come up. I need you to take the panda back for me." He handed her the key. "I'll deal with my paperwork for the case when I get in again, right?"

"Right. See you later." She nodded and Greg got into the car after the mystery man.

He buckled in as the car began moving. "So, what's your interest in the kid, then?"

"What is your impression of Sherlock Holmes?"

"He in some kind of trouble?" It seemed likely, but this was awfully big trouble for a junkie, no matter how posh he seemed. Maybe Sherlock had stumbled into the middle of some kind of James Bond thing? If anybody was going to randomly get into that sort of trouble, it would likely be him. Greg was still trying to figure out exactly what was going on.

"No. Please answer the question."

Short and to the point. Greg shrugged. "He's mad. Absolutely mad. He's also a complete and utter tosser, but he may well be the most brilliant person I've ever met. It's too bad he's a junkie. He could do amazing things with that mind if he'd just clean up and apply himself to something."

That seemed to surprise the man, and his demeanour shifted, becoming friendlier and more open. Without the tight, fake smile, he wasn't that bad looking. "You were speaking with him at a crime scene recently. You listened to him, rather than ejecting him."

This sounded personal, nothing like something the Home Office would be interested in. He gave the man a closer look. "He said a few things that made sense."

"He's approached such scenes before but has never received a hearing." Definitely personal, and honestly puzzled.

"Aside from the fact that he's obviously using, he's got the social graces of a temperamental badger. I'm not surprised nobody else gave him the time of day. Who'd listen to a wanker like that?"

"You did." He sounded genuinely pleased by that. This bloke had to be family. There was just something about him that _felt_ similar. The attitude, maybe, though this one was actually housebroken. His eyes felt the same way Sherlock's did on him -- it was like being x-rayed, like all Greg's secrets were on display. It was unnerving. If you'd had it turned on you once, it was impossible to miss a second time. Way too young to be Sherlock's father, though; he looked a little younger than Greg was. Maybe an uncle? More likely a brother. It would explain why he didn't want to give his name, at least.

"What's your interest in him, anyway?"

The man offered Greg a wry half-smile, this one real. "I worry about him. Constantly."

"You _are_ related to him, then. Brother?"

"Very good, Inspector. I'm impressed." He offered a hand. "Mycroft Holmes."

Greg shook it. The man's grip was firm but not overbearing, his hand warmer than Greg would have thought from his overall icy demeanour. "My sympathies. Can't be easy."

Mycroft shook his head and made a soft sound that might have been a rueful chuckle. "You have no idea. Sherlock regards me as his archenemy."

"Really? That's a bit... melodramatic, isn't it?"

"You've met him." Mycroft arched an eyebrow.

"Well, yeah, fair enough." Greg paused for a moment. "So why all the mystery? Why not just tell me who you were and ask me? There wasn't any need for this." He gestured at the car they rode in.

"I wanted an honest answer, Inspector. Would you really have said those things about my brother had you known who I was?"

He thought about it for a moment. "Yeah, most likely. Sherlock's being a berk isn't exactly a secret, is it?"

Mycroft actually laughed at that, his eyes crinkling. "No, I suppose it isn't." Greg smiled back at him. "Your honesty is refreshing, Inspector. I see so little of it."

"But I'm sure you were after something more than an honest opinion, Mr Holmes?"

"Yes, I'm afraid I am," he said. "Sherlock requires a rather high level of stimulation, of distraction, or he falls into a spiral of drug abuse that has become increasingly more difficult to control."

"Why talk to me?" Greg was sympathetic to Mycroft's difficulty, but wasn't sure there was anything he could do for him.

Mycroft tilted his head, looking Greg directly in the eyes. "Sherlock craves puzzles, Inspector. If you were to allow him to assist in your more... unusual cases, it might prove the stimulus necessary to break him free of his addictions."

Greg shook his head. "Oh, no, I can't have a junkie wandering through my crime scenes, faffing about with the evidence and making it impossible to actually get a conviction. I'll admit, he's bloody brilliant, but if everything's not documented properly, if the evidence is contaminated, the case gets thrown out. You know that. And the fact that Sherlock's using makes him a liability to me. I can't."

"And if he's clean?" Mycroft raised his chin slightly.

"Maybe. I could land in a lot of hot water over this. Why doesn't he find another hobby?"

"Deduction is where his primary talent and interest lies."

"If you say so."

"Perhaps cold cases," Mycroft suggested. "It might be less hazardous to everyone involved."

That seemed to be a slightly better option. There wouldn't be so much to mess up in terms of the chain of evidence, at least. "I'll consider it, but _only_ if he's clean. Any hint of him using, the deal's off. I mean it. I could lose my job. I'm not about to risk that."

"I do understand." Mycroft reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a card. "Should you run into any difficulty, please don't hesitate to contact me."

Greg took the card; the fine linen stock was printed with Mycroft's name and a phone number in an understated copperplate font. "All right," he said, as the car pulled smoothly to a halt.

"Sleep well, Inspector," Mycroft said, nodding to the door. Greg looked through the deeply tinted window, realising that they'd stopped in front of his flat.

"Erm, thanks." He had no idea how the conversation had been timed so precisely. Greg was far too knackered to bother thinking about it when he opened the door and got out. As the car pulled away, he stood on the pavement for a moment and watched.

***

His meeting with the Detective Inspector had been surprising in a number of ways, and Mycroft Holmes was a man rarely surprised by anything. He certainly understood Lestrade's hesitance in taking Sherlock on as a project. The risks for him were high, but he could obviously see that the benefit to his career would be significant if Sherlock were able to conquer his addictions.

Lestrade's record with the Met was good, his personal life free of unfortunate (dangerous and blackmail-worthy) complications, and he'd been married for nearly ten years. He was well-regarded for his work ethic and his integrity. The man would make a suitable distraction for Sherlock, and might even be able to reach him in ways that Mycroft hadn't been able to in many years. He would bear watching, and was subsequently added to Mycroft's morning Sherlock surveillance report.

***

"So, yeah, I'm willing to let you look at some cold cases _if_ you're clean, and not until you can prove it to me. I'm not about to risk my career for you if you can't cooperate, Sherlock. It's a bloody shame seeing you waste your amazing intellect on that poison."

Sherlock's gaze seemed to cut right through him. "You -- you've been speaking to my _brother_. Did he offer you money?"

Greg blinked. "What? No. Why would he do that?"

"Good God, Lestrade, you are an idiot." His eyes were too bright and he was a little manic. One knee bobbed frantically; Sherlock didn't even seem to realize his body was moving.

"You keep using that word. I don't think it means what you think it means." Greg leaned back on the rickety wooden chair in Sherlock's disaster of a bedsit. The place was barely better than an alley, really, and cold as hell. "We're trying to help."

"Help? Hah! Do you have any idea what my brother is?"

Greg shrugged. "Said he was with the Home Office. Looked to me like he was telling the truth. Then again, he also claimed you think he's your archenemy."

"He is." Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his cheeks flushed with anger. "Mycroft is dangerous, Lestrade. He is the most dangerous man you will ever meet. 'The Home Office' barely begins to describe him. My brother _is_ the British government, when he's not too busy being the secret service or freelancing as the CIA." He looked like he was about to start hyperventilating. "Stay away from him if you have more than one functional brain cell rattling about in your skull."

"Look, I have no idea what your problem with your brother is, but I do know he's worried about you."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure he told you he worries constantly," Sherlock spat.

"Yeah." Greg nodded. "Bloody obvious as to why, too."

Sherlock's voice rose with his anger, his hands moving in sharp, jittery arcs. "He will use you, Lestrade. If he cannot control you, he will destroy you. He will manipulate you and suck the life out of you and then he will drop you in the wreckage and walk away."

"This, from a bloke who's slowly killing himself with cocaine. 'Sides, I've seen him in the light of day. He's not a vampire." Greg's mouth twisted into a sardonic half-smile and he chuckled quietly.

"This is _serious_!"

Greg slowly lit a cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling before returning his gaze to Sherlock. "So am I. You want something to keep you from killing yourself because you're bored. I'll give you that something, but you have to stop trying to do yourself in with that crap. Your choice."

"I have it under control. It's not dangerous. I know my limits precisely." He sounded desperate.

"You're lying to yourself if you think that."

"Lestrade--"

"Shut it. Those are my terms. Take it or leave it." He rose from the chair and tightened his coat around him against the even more frigid conditions he'd be walking out into. "I'm out of here." He turned and started for the door.

"No, wait!"

Greg stopped and looked back at Sherlock. He stared at him, silent, puffing on his cigarette. The smoke was about the only warm thing in the room.

Sherlock looked down at the floor. "All right. Give me a case."

"Come to me in a few days when the coke's out of your system. You'll have a piss test and if you're clean, I'll hand you a file. That's the deal."

Sherlock glared at him as though he could make Greg's brain explode just by willing it, but he nodded. "All right," he grumbled, reluctant.

Greg nodded. "Good. See you later."

"I can help you, Lestrade."

"I know," he said. "That's why we're doing this." He hoped he could help Sherlock, too. Or punch him. Punching him would be good.

***

A phone call from Inspector Lestrade had Mycroft sending a car to pick him up after he finished his work at the Met for the day; Mycroft awaited him in the Stranger's Room at the Diogenes Club. Lestrade was still looking around as he closed the door behind him. "Really nice place you've got here."

Mycroft looked up from his chair and gestured to an identical one next to his own. "Please, Inspector, have a seat. Would you care for a glass of whisky?"

Lestrade sank heavily into the chair and sighed. "Yeah. God, yes. Thanks." He took the proffered glass and stared down into it for a moment. "God, what a crap day." Lestrade shook his head and took a fairly substantial sip of his drink. His eyes closed and he relaxed into the chair. "Things are suddenly looking up a bit, though. This is fantastic." His dark brown eyes opened and he smiled, a soft lift of his lips that did something to the pit of Mycroft's stomach.

"I'm pleased to hear things are looking up," Mycroft said, taking a sip from his own glass. "Why was your day so unpleasant?" The flecks of blood on Lestrade's cuff suggested something violent, but the blood wasn't his. Mycroft would no doubt see whatever had happened in tomorrow morning's surveillance report, but he didn't have an evening update. Perhaps he should add one.

Lestrade shook his head, the smile disappearing. "One of my DCs got stabbed at a scene this morning. She's going to be fine, but it was a right mess. Hate it when my people get hurt."

"Your distress is perfectly understandable. I'm pleased to hear that your constable will recover." This, though, was obviously not why Lestrade had come.

"Yeah," Lestrade murmured. He took a deep breath. "Really needed to talk with you about Sherlock, though."

Mycroft nodded. "Please." He gestured for Lestrade to continue.

Lestrade took another drink, bracing himself. "I'm just not sure this is going to work, Mr Holmes."

"I was under the impression he's helped to clear up a few cold cases?" Mycroft knew very well that was the case.

"Yeah, three of them in the last five months, but he's... Christ, he's hell to work with. He's aggravated all of my people beyond belief. Even I want to nut him half the time. It's only been three cases because it's been hard to keep him clean." Lestrade set his glass down on the side table and scrubbed a palm over his face. "I can't seem to persuade him that it's important enough."

"On the contrary," Mycroft said, shaking his head, "you've done a remarkable job, Inspector. You could not be aware, of course, but your cases have done a far better job of keeping Sherlock away from the drugs than anything I've done in recent memory." Lestrade looked up at him, a hint of disbelief in his eyes. "I do mean that. He's actually attempting to cooperate, though I know it has been difficult for him. And for you. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your role in his ongoing recovery."

"I don't know," Lestrade said, hesitant. "I've just got a bad feeling about it right now, like something's about to give. Maybe not this week, but soon. I think he's headed for another crash and I'm not sure there's anything I can do about it. I wanted you to know. I've seen how you worry over him."

They'd had several conversations about Sherlock, averaging one about every two to three weeks over the time Lestrade had been attempting to help. Mycroft hadn't realized his worry had been so transparent during those meetings. "You may be right, yet nothing I've done has made half the impression upon him that you had. All I can do is ask that you continue to try; you really are making a difference. You've given me some hope that he might eventually be able to handle his addictions, that he might someday at least resemble the younger brother I once knew."

Lestrade's fingers moved slowly but restlessly back and forth along the arm of the chair in which he sat, his brow wrinkling as he watched them. "I can understand hoping for that, though I can't say as I'd be too optimistic. I'm just letting you know that I'm worried." He looked back up at Mycroft. "You might want to try keeping a closer eye on him if that's possible, at least for the next few weeks."

Mycroft nodded. "Understood."

Lestrade stood. "I really ought to be going. I've taken up enough of your time, and I should get home. The wife's expecting me." His voice and the way Lestrade held himself suggested a certain trepidation, but Mycroft had seen five signs that his marriage was wavering of late. He suspected a slow crumble coming over the course of several years, rather than a spectacular explosion, but he was quite certain that Lestrade would try his best to repair things if he could. Mycroft rose as well.

"Thank you for letting me know, Inspector," he said, offering a hand. Lestrade took it for a moment, warm and solid. "I appreciate your efforts on my brother's behalf."

"I'm doing what I can," Lestrade said. "Wish it could be more." He left quietly, and Mycroft returned to his seat, analysing his possibilities regarding increasing surveillance on Sherlock.

***

It was, in fact, a mere three days before Mycroft received a call from Lestrade again. "Sherlock's in hospital, Mr Holmes. He's overdosed."

"Where?" Mycroft closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a suddenly developing headache.

"King's College Hospital in Brixton. I'll head over there soon as I'm done at the scene I'm working." He sounded distracted and Mycroft could hear shouting in the background.

"Thank you, Inspector. I'll be there as soon as I'm able." He pulled up his schedule for the day, wondering how much of it he could have rearranged.

There was a slight pause as Lestrade covered his phone and shouted an answer back to someone. "I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, I have to go. I hope he'll be all right."

"Yes. Thank you." Mycroft ended the call and summoned Anthea.

It was about half an hour before Mycroft arrived at the hospital. He hadn't been able to stop fretting during the journey. A telephone call had assured him that Sherlock was, in fact, still alive, but his condition was unstable. Seizures had been involved, and Mycroft cursed his brother's perfidy. Sherlock genuinely had been doing better and Mycroft had hoped, perhaps unreasonably, that he'd reached a turning point.

Mycroft had already arranged Sherlock's transfer to a private rehabilitation facility as he strode down the corridor toward the ICU ward where his brother was being treated. He'd have to be stable enough for transport first, and Mycroft was uncertain how long that would take. A nurse informed him that he had to turn off his mobile upon entering the ward, given the problem of interference with the hospital's equipment. Reluctantly, he complied.

The sight of his brother, sedated and wired to so many monitors and IV drips, was entirely sobering. He paused at the curtain barrier, unable to move for a moment. "Oh, Sherlock," he whispered, shaking his head. "Why do you never manage to deal with your boredom in a constructive manner?"

With a sigh, Mycroft pulled up a chair next to the bed and took off his jacket, draping it over the back of the chair. He leaned his umbrella against it, and settled in for a lengthy wait.

Time blurred, punctuated by the sound of monitors and the coming and going of medical personnel. It was a relief to hear that he would be able to transfer Sherlock sometime in the late afternoon, and he left his brother's side briefly to confirm the details. Mycroft had only just returned to the ICU when Lestrade arrived. There was a takeaway bag in his hand.

"Mr Holmes. How is he?" Lestrade's gaze shifted from Mycroft to Sherlock and back, taking in the situation. He reached out to shake Mycroft's hand.

"Stabilising," Mycroft answered, accepting Lestrade's offered gesture. "I'll be transferring him to a private facility later this afternoon."

Lestrade nodded. He looked exhausted; he'd obviously come directly from his crime scene via the restaurant. There were twelve separate indicators of this fact. "And how are you holding up?" he asked.

The question stopped Mycroft for a moment; Lestrade looked like he genuinely wanted to know. He had to think about it before he answered. Mycroft would have brushed away such a question had it been asked at work; under these circumstances he hadn't considered his own condition worth noting. "I've been better," he admitted. "I've waited by his bedside half a dozen times over the years. No one has ever asked me that before." It felt odd to say it, but for once he allowed himself to utter the words.

"I'm sorry," Lestrade said, squeezing Mycroft's shoulder once, gently, before he took a second chair and pulled it over to where Mycroft sat. His hand had been cool through the cloth of Mycroft's waistcoat. There was something strangely reassuring about this. Lestrade set the bag on the floor at his feet. "If there's anything I can do..."

"No. Thank you."

Lestrade sat, gazing over at Sherlock. "He was at the scene when we arrived, damned near out of his mind on the stuff. It was the second murder of a homeless man this week; Sherlock apparently knew both of them. Said the deaths were connected, but he was barely coherent." He looked back up at Mycroft. "He collapsed there, started convulsing. I called for an ambulance." Lestrade paled slightly. "I wasn't sure he'd make it to hospital. I wanted to go with him, but had to stay and deal with the situation. I called you as soon as I could."

"I appreciate that. I had hoped you might be wrong about his impending relapse."

"So did I." Lestrade sighed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His shoulders sagged and his hands dangled, limp. "I brought along some lunch, if you haven't eaten recently. Thought you might have been too busy or distracted to think of it." He leaned down and picked up the bag. "Chinese. Hope that's all right." He offered it to Mycroft.

"I... thank you." He hadn't realized quite how hungry he was. Mycroft took the bag and looked inside. Eating would be a bit messier than he'd like under these conditions, but now that he'd realized he needed something, waiting seemed inadvisable.

"Beef lo mein, some sweet and sour chicken," Lestrade said. Mycroft nodded. He'd not done takeaway since his university days, and Chinese in London was nothing at all like the food actually eaten anywhere in China, but he was loath to complain right at that moment. Mycroft took the box of lo mein from the bag, and a pair of disposable chopsticks. He handed the rest back to Lestrade.

They ate in silence for several minutes, and Mycroft watched the precise, dexterous movements of Lestrade's fingers on the chopsticks. Having eaten about half the container, Mycroft closed it and slipped it back into the bag. He dug for a moment and pulled out a small packet containing a hand wipe and cleaned his fingers. He'd wash up later. "Thank you for this," he said, feeling an unaccustomed warmth in his chest. "I appreciate your concern for my brother."

"Not just your brother," Lestrade answered, through a bite of chicken, gesturing with his chopsticks. "I know what this is like, too well," he said. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Lost my brother about twelve years ago to alcohol. He died after a car wreck, took two people with him. There was nothing any of us could do. He wouldn't admit he needed help."

"I'm sorry." Mycroft had known Lestrade once had a brother, that the brother had died. It was in the report he'd initially received when he realised Sherlock might be able to work with the inspector.

Lestrade jabbed his chopsticks into his box and set it down, shaking his head. "I know how hard this is, how alone you probably feel, having to deal with this. I'm just saying, if you need a friend, Mr Holmes--"

The absolute sincerity of the offer touched something in him. It was a perplexing sensation, but one to which he could not help responding. He catalogued it for later analysis. "Mycroft, please, Inspector."

"Greg, then."

Mycroft nodded. "Thank you, Greg."

"I'll be around if you need someone to talk to, Mycroft. Anytime. Just let me know. I'm only a phone call away, all right?"

"I appreciate your offer." It was kind of him -- more so than Mycroft could have imagined. Taking the man up on it, however, was unlikely. He didn't think the tenuous state of their acquaintance warranted such a thing. He was reluctant to reflect on the accuracy of Greg's assessment of his current state.

Greg folded his own box shut, putting it into the bag, then cleaned his hands and rolled the bag closed. "I'm afraid I have to get back to work, but if you let me know where Sherlock goes for rehab, I'll see about visiting him while he's in treatment."

"That would probably be inadvisable. He was barely tolerable when he was in treatment last time. I wouldn't want to expose anyone to him at his worst."

"All the same." Greg stood, and Mycroft stood with him, offering him a hand. "All right if I call you tomorrow, see how you're doing?" Greg shook it.

"That would be acceptable." Mycroft found himself rather looking forward to it, despite himself. He didn't want to examine his reasons. Both of these things left him uneasy.

***

Greg stared at his mobile for a few minutes as he stood on the pavement outside New Scotland Yard. He'd said he would call Mycroft, but he'd not had a moment to breathe until he'd got off his shift just now. Poor bloke had looked awful yesterday but it hadn't really been the place or the time for a long conversation. He'd been vulnerable, distracted by his brother's condition, and had far too much to worry about. By now, Sherlock would be safely tucked into some rehab facility, probably out in the countryside, and maybe Mycroft would have the time and the inclination to talk a bit.

It was a pleasant, warm evening, so he started walking down toward the tube station as he rang Mycroft. He got a receptionist and asked for Mycroft, giving his name. A moment later, Mycroft's calm, resonant voice came on the line. "Good evening, Greg."

"Evening, Mycroft. Just checking in with you, wanted to see how you were doing and if there's been any update on your brother."

"I believe he's currently the lead contender for Most Aggravating Creature In Existence," Mycroft said. Greg could hear the ice dripping from his voice. "I've had six calls from the facility so far today."

"Good Christ, that's got to be some sort of record."

"Sadly, no. I expect I'll get another three or four before midnight." Mycroft's voice was steady, but Greg could feel the tension behind it.

"Look, I know you're probably not interested or maybe you're too busy but, if you like, I could buy you a drink. You sound like you might need one. I mean, you don't strike me as the sort to just pop round the pub, but--"

"Actually," Mycroft said, pausing for a moment after he'd interrupted Greg. "Actually, I might just do that."

"Really?" Greg wasn't sure he believed Mycroft had agreed.

"Yes, really." Mycroft suggested a bar in St Ermin's Hotel, not far from the St James's Park tube station. He'd been walking in that direction anyway, so it rather made sense. Mycroft said he'd be there in half an hour or forty five minutes, so Greg agreed to get them a table and wait for him.

The place was a fair bit more upmarket than Greg's usual haunts, but he supposed it might be slumming it for Mycroft. He rang Annie and let her know he was going to be late because he was meeting a friend, and they talked for a bit about the day; by the time he was done, he saw Mycroft walking through the door.

Mycroft spotted him immediately, of course, as he floated gracefully through the crowd in the bar, ever-present umbrella in hand. Someone appeared at his elbow as he sat, to take their order. Once that was done, Mycroft relaxed very slightly in his seat, still managing to look wary.

It took the better part of an hour and two drinks before Greg saw the wire-strung tension holding Mycroft together start to ease a bit. Mycroft didn't touch at all on his work, but Greg hadn't expected him to. They spoke mostly about Sherlock, and the last few times he'd been in rehab. "After a few days, it becomes nearly impossible to keep him in a facility," Mycroft said, staring into his glass. "I sometimes fear that his inability to cope with ordinary human boredom will kill him." Mycroft held himself with dignity and a certain aloof distance, but all Greg could see was a worried elder brother, uncertain, and very efficiently hiding the depth of his concern.

"I can understand why." Greg reached out and lay a hand on Mycroft's wrist. Mycroft looked at Greg's hand, then up into his eyes. His face was tight and his expression slightly puzzled.

"Why are you doing this, Greg? Why does it matter to you?" Greg wasn't ready with an answer and, after a moment, Mycroft continued. "I will admit I don't understand your motivations."

"Ah. I see." Greg nodded, withdrawing his hand. He took a breath and let it out slowly. "Your brother is amazing, Mycroft. He's a remarkable man. He's absolutely brilliant. From what he's said about you, I can only believe you're even more so, though to hear him talk, you're some sort of Bond villain. I'm half expecting a big, white Angora cat and shark tanks in your flat. Maybe a super-secret headquarters under a volcano in the South Pacific. And I know you've got minions -- I've seen some of them."

Mycroft was obviously fighting the urge to smile. He wasn't entirely successful. "Really."

Greg grinned. "Yeah, well. You're so quiet that it's hard to see that brilliance unless you want it seen. You hide it well." He grew serious again. "Sherlock claims you _are_ the government, not to mention half the security agencies anyone's ever heard of. Says you 'specialize in omniscience.'" Mycroft opened his mouth to deflect, but Greg didn't let him. "I'm not an idiot, Mycroft, and I don't care exactly what it is you do, really. I know when things aren't my business." Mycroft nodded and Greg continued.

"Sherlock deserves a chance. He could be... God he could make such a difference, but you know that. You see that, just like I do -- probably a lot better than I do, considering you grew up together. If you've got anything like the intelligence he has, then he's most likely right about how much power you have, and I can only trust that it's being put to good use."

Mycroft looked surprised at that. "Thank you," he murmured, taking another sip of his drink.

"Far as I can tell, you're doing everything humanly possible to help him, but he doesn't want any part of it. If I can help you with that, if I can help turn that amazing mind toward helping people instead of self-destruction, then that's what I'm going to do."

Mycroft's head tilted and Greg knew he was waiting for the rest of it. "I can't say as I know anything about you, Mycroft. I don't know what friends you might have, or whether you have people to talk to, but you looked so alone yesterday, and I hated to see that."

"I don't require pity," Mycroft said, his mouth twisting into an unpleasant frown.

Greg shook his head. "I'm not offering any. That's not what I'm saying at all."

"Then what, pray tell, _are_ you saying?"

"Pretty much what I was saying yesterday in hospital. That you seem like you might need a friend who's been where you are with your brother." Greg shrugged. "I'm sure you've done background checks on me and all that. You know I'm not a security risk. We've spent a fair bit of time together since I met your brother, and I like you. I enjoy your company. I'm probably nothing like anyone you usually spend time with, but I don't think that has to be a problem unless you really want it to be, in which case you'd not be here in the first place."

"True enough," Mycroft admitted, beginning to look intrigued.

"Anyone who's going through this needs people to talk to. I know damned well that people with a security clearance, or in a position like mine -- we both know going to a shrink might just end your career. You might as well hand in your resignation. I'm not sure you have anyone else." Mycroft's face didn't shift but the look in his eyes told Greg he'd struck to the bone. "If you think you can trust me, if you trust me with your brother, then let me be here for you."

"And what does that mean?"

"Do you want to do this maybe once a week or so? Just get together and talk? It can be about Sherlock, or about anything else, really. Doesn't much matter what. I'm not that bad at listening, and sometimes just having someone you can vent at makes a huge difference."

"What's in this for you?" Mycroft asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Helping you. Helping Sherlock. I think you're both worth that effort. And maybe I get a new friend out of the deal." He wondered how Mycroft would react to the concept.

"That's it?" Mycroft asked, a carefully controlled hint of disbelief in his voice.

"It's always worth it to have friends, Mycroft," Greg said. "Don't let anyone tell you different."

***

Mycroft was uncertain why his defences seemed inadequate around Gregory Lestrade. Greg was a reasonably intelligent man and quite competent at his job, but Mycroft knew many men who were and he had always managed to keep them at arm's length. Greg's willingness to help Sherlock was encouraging, despite a frequently expressed urge to hit him, but it didn't explain why Mycroft enjoyed spending time with him. One's first impression would be that they had little in common: class, money, position, attitude.

Even Sherlock seemed unusually affected by him. "You stayed through the entire treatment program," Mycroft said, still a bit surprised, when he went to pick Sherlock up from the facility some weeks later. Sherlock, sour as ever, simply glowered out the window of the car. He crossed his arms over his chest, tight and closed. "The only difference this time was that you were occasionally visited by Inspector Lestrade."

"He said he'd give me cases," Sherlock murmured, looking at Mycroft via his reflection in the window. "But only if I stayed." There was anger in his voice and the tightness of his shoulders. Mycroft obviously had a great deal to thank Greg for; it was the first time Sherlock had ever remained in a facility for the entire course of treatment. It had seemed unlikely at first, and they had come very close to discharging him for abusing the staff. It would certainly not have been unusual.

"He resolved the murders of those homeless men," Mycroft said. Greg had refrained from talking about cases on those occasions when he visited Sherlock, despite Sherlock's merciless hounding of him.

Sherlock looked over at him. "Were there more? I was certain there would be."

"One. Apparently the three murdered individuals had been witnesses to another murder, related to drug trafficking in the area."

"He's not entirely an idiot," Sherlock admitted.

"He did attain the position of Detective Inspector in the usual way." Greg was, in fact, very good at what he did. Mycroft could respect the man's competence.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he studied Mycroft silently for a few moments before speaking. His nose wrinkled. "You _fancy_ him."

"That's irrelevant, Sherlock."

"You admit it then." Sherlock's expression wavered between disgust and disbelief.

Mycroft sighed. "I've no reason to deny it. Nothing is going to happen. The Inspector is, after all, married, and I'm not interested in a relationship with anyone, as you well know. That doesn't mean I can't enjoy looking at him." He really was quite devastating. He was of average height and build, yet his dark hair and thoroughly delightful brown eyes caught Mycroft's attention every time he looked at him. Greg had a very handsome face and was quite well put together. One would have to be blind not to appreciate his assets. Mycroft wasn't about to deny that he liked what he saw. In practical terms, however, it was meaningless. Beautiful scenery was still only scenery.

"Stay away from him. I don't want you dragging your fat fingers through my chance to do something interesting." Sherlock turned back to the window and shut his eyes. "You have him spying on me, of course."

"While he did, in fact, call to inform me you had collapsed at his crime scene and been admitted to hospital, I would not categorize that as 'spying,' brother mine. There was nothing in the least covert about it. You knew I would speak to him, and he acted out of concern for you."

"You always interfere."

"Do forgive me for wanting you to remain among the living." Mycroft couldn't help the bitterness in his voice. Best to change the subject. "Where will you stay now? Shall I take you to my flat?"

"No. Just drop me anywhere. I don't care. I'll find something."

"That hideous bedsit you were living in was rented out again over a month ago."

"That's why I said I would find something. Pay attention."

"I can put you in a hotel until you--"

"I don't want your help!"

Mycroft scrubbed one hand over his face. "Very well." He pulled to the side of the street and handed Sherlock fifty pounds. "This should at least buy you a meal." Sherlock just shoved it in his pocket and bolted from the vehicle, hurrying down the pavement without looking back. Shaking his head, Mycroft turned the car toward his own flat. He wondered if Greg would mind a call after work this evening.

***

Nearly six months after Sherlock's release from the rehabilitation program, he was, for the most part, still clean. There had been occasional minor lapses -- 'experiments,' Sherlock called them -- but from everything Mycroft could see, and all that Greg had told him, their plan had been largely successful. Mycroft had been able to reduce surveillance on his brother to a much lower priority.

Sherlock was still a very angry young man, abrasive and verbally abusive to most of those around him, but he was willing to cooperate at least minimally for the sake of Greg's cold cases. "I think he might be ready to work on a live case involving actual human beings," Greg said. Their weekly meetings had continued, skipped only when one or the other was unavailable for reasons of work. Over the months, they had gone from indulging in a drink and talking for an hour or so, to dinner and a sometimes lengthy conversation lasting late into the evening. Mycroft realized he was enjoying their time together immensely; he found Greg's company relaxing and comfortable.

It was a relief to have someone to speak with about Sherlock. More to the point, Greg was someone with whom he could talk about certain other parts of his life, as well, and whom he knew would not suddenly become a political enemy. None of his peers could be entirely trusted. All of them had agendas, and Mycroft could never allow himself to show anything resembling vulnerability. His personal life was entirely off limits to everyone he worked with. Anthea was an exception, but she had to know some details to be efficient as his PA. Greg was, above all else, discreet; it was a quality Mycroft valued greatly.

"Are you quite certain, Greg? He's been a bit volatile in the past two weeks, from what I've seen."

Greg nodded. "Yeah, I know, but a lot of that is because he thinks he's ready. I've been holding off because I haven't had anything that he'd actually find interesting enough. I've waved a couple of cases at him but he just shouts 'boring!' and stomps off muttering about how stupid I am." He sighed. "I've got used to it, but it's still annoying."

"And hurtful, I'm sure," Mycroft said.

"Well, that too. It's not like that'll change, though. Yesterday he went off on me again about talking with you." Greg's eyes rolled and Mycroft smiled. Greg looked at him, serious for a moment. "I've no idea why he seems to hate you so much."

"I don't believe he actually hates me," Mycroft answered. "I have some theories about his actions toward me, but none of them entirely serve to explain his behaviour. I would change it if I could."

"He never gives me the same answer twice, and none of the ones he _has_ given make much sense."

"Ultimately, I think he feels I abandoned him when I went off to university. We were quite close when he was a child. Sherlock has never been terribly forgiving. Our father was not a pleasant man; he didn't understand either of us and we were both well aware of this fact. All the same, I couldn't stay. I was expected to fulfil certain obligations, and I had responsibilities that demanded my presence elsewhere. I couldn't be there for him when he needed me and I regret that, but there's nothing I can do to change it. Some patterns are too deeply embedded to change without a great deal of mutual effort."

"Yeah, we all have to leave home sometime, and you couldn't be expected to take him with you. I'm sorry."

Mycroft shook his head and waved the words away with one hand. "For now, the only thing I can do is keep watch over him and make myself available if he wishes to change the nature of our association. Reaching out to him has proved futile."

"He complains about your watching out for him. Says it's very Orwell of you."

"Perhaps." Mycroft looked off toward the wall of the restaurant, unfocused. "If he would simply talk to me, I suspect our relationship would be considerably easier on both of us. I'd have less need to resort to such methods. I have reduced my... Orwellian tendencies considerably in the last few months. I fear they may never entirely vanish."

"Him talking to you about it doesn't seem likely," Greg murmured.

"Not unless something unforeseeable happens in his life." Mycroft looked back at Greg. "The people with whom he associates -- with the singular exception of yourself -- are only exacerbating the problem."

"At least he's not using."

"For the moment."

"For the moment," Greg agreed. "He's been spending time over at St Bart's this week. God only knows what he's up to. Something with corpses. I think he's found somebody there to let him into the mortuary and the labs. Past day or so he's seemed a little calmer. Maybe it'll last until I can find something challenging for him."

"We can hope."

Greg smiled at him again, and it left a growing warmth in Mycroft's chest.

***

The day's Sherlock surveillance report was alarming. While nothing had happened to Sherlock, there had been a chase as part of one of his cases that had involved Greg, and Mycroft felt a chill shiver down his spine when he saw footage showing Greg being tossed over the railing of Hammersmith Bridge. A moment later, Sherlock had leapt over after him.

He tapped the intercom. "Anthea, I need to speak with you for a moment."

"Of course sir." She appeared in his office and stood before his desk. "Yes, sir?"

"Why was I not informed about Inspector Lestrade and my brother's unscheduled swim in the Thames?"

"Your brother was unharmed, sir. There was nothing particularly alarming about the situation."

"Find out what happened to Detective Inspector Lestrade, please. Immediately."

Her expression didn't change but he could see a slight hint of surprise in her face. "Of course, sir. Right away." She was on her Blackberry for a few moments, then looked up at him. "Taken to A&E at Charing Cross Hospital, sir. Admitted for hypothermia and near drowning."

Mycroft couldn't help the moment of anxiety, or the skip of his heart at that news. "Still there?" Anthea nodded. "I see. I shall be taking some time off this morning. Please notify my driver."

"Yes, sir. Is there anything else you require?"

"Not at the moment. However, if the Detective Inspector is injured again, I would like to be informed." Anthea nodded once again, looking slightly surprised. "Given that he is the only person at the Met who is willing to work with my brother, his health is actually of some concern to me."

"I'll be sure to put a note in the surveillance file, sir."

He sent her away with a gesture of his hand and rose from his desk.

About ninety minutes later, Mycroft found himself at the door of Greg's hospital room, umbrella in one hand and a small bouquet of sunflowers in the other. He'd heard coughing as he approached; it sounded quite uncomfortable. There was a woman in the room with Greg, obviously his wife, and Mycroft entered cautiously. "Mrs Lestrade, I presume?"

She looked him up and down. Greg's eyes were squeezed tightly closed as his coughing continued. He didn't look well at all. "Who are you?" she asked. There was suspicion in her voice.

"Mycroft Holmes. Your husband and I are acquainted." He placed the flowers in the hand with his umbrella and offered his free hand to her but she just stared at him, anger in her eyes. She was a short, slender woman with dark blonde hair. A teacher, Mycroft noted. Probably three years younger than Greg, not happy with her life, wanted children but had none. She'd been in the room for a couple of hours already and was obviously late for work and not happy about that, either.

"You're that psycho's brother? Greg's mentioned you. It's his fault Greg's here," she snapped. She didn't take his hand and he dropped it to his side. Mycroft quite disliked her. While he could understand her distress at Greg's being in hospital, it didn't excuse her rudeness to a stranger.

"I can only apologise for Sherlock," Mycroft said. It wasn't something he would ordinarily have done, but she was Greg's wife and he was inclined to treat her with a bit more courtesy due to that fact. "How is Greg?"

Greg's coughing finally stopped, but his breathing sounded wet and harsh. He gasped a few times before his eyes opened.

The woman's eyes narrowed. "That horrible man needs to be on a leash. Keep him away from Greg. He's been hurt twice in the last two years because of that... that..." She made a frustrated sound. While it was true Greg had received minor injuries in the pursuit of his cases recently, one of which involved Sherlock, none of them had resulted in hospitalisations before. She turned to Greg. "I have to get to work, love. I'm sorry I can't stay longer." She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, squeezing his hand. Greg nodded.

"Will you come by this evening, Annie?" Greg asked, his voice rough and rasping.

"Of course." She picked up her coat and glared at Mycroft as she left.

"Sorry 'bout that," Greg said. "She gets angry when I get hurt. What are you doing here, anyway?" He looked puzzled.

Mycroft looked down at the sunflowers in his hand. "I'm told this is what one does when one's friend is hospitalised." He held the flowers up and leaned his umbrella against the side of the bed. He felt terribly awkward, having never done anything like this before. "Are you going to be all right?" Greg was flushed from his coughing. The tissue in his hand was flecked with tiny specks of blood. Water damage to the lungs, then. This was not good.

"Don't know yet. The docs have me on enough antibiotics to choke a horse. God knows what's floating in the Thames; that crap can kill you. They want to keep me here a day or so for observation." He coughed again, his body curling with the force of it. Mycroft stood next to the bed, helpless as he watched, fighting an urge to run a soothing hand through Greg's silvering hair. He felt vaguely horrified by the whole situation. After a moment, the coughing stilled again and the gasping returned as Greg caught his breath. "Hurts to breathe," he said, barely a whisper. Greg gestured at the chair recently occupied by his wife. "Sit."

Mycroft nodded and sat. He looked around for a place to put the flowers, before giving up and stuffing the stems into a nearby water pitcher. He wasn't feeling up to finesse. "Are you able to talk a bit longer?" He didn't want to stress his friend.

"A bit." Greg sank back into his pillows, eyes half closed with his exhaustion. The rattle in his chest was more than a little frightening. He could understand Mrs Lestrade's anger at Sherlock, really. He was feeling rather a lot of it himself.

"What happened?"

"Dunno entirely. Sherlock got me onto this case and we ended up chasing some bloody bastard on foot." Greg's narrative was interrupted by coughing and a need to simply sit and breathe for a moment. "We caught up to him on Hammersmith Bridge and the bloke heaved me over the side. Last thing I remember was thinking 'oh shit' and the next thing after that, Sherlock was holding my head out of the water and clinging to the brickwork at the bottom of the support column while we waited for a rescue crew, and I was puking up half the Thames." He shivered slightly. "Fucking cold. God, it was awful. I couldn't hardly breathe."

Mycroft nodded. "What happened to Sherlock?"

"God knows. He didn't stick around once the ambulance arrived." His eyes fluttered closed for a moment. "Hope he caught the bastard."

"What was the case about?" Mycroft settled back in the chair, watching Greg closely.

Greg didn't answer for a long moment, still focused on breathing. "Was related to that kidnapping in Highgate last week," he said.

"Ah."

"I expect Donovan will come by and let me know, if they manage to catch him." He rubbed at his temple; probably developing a headache. "Don't think I'm going to make tomorrow's weekly, Mycroft."

Mycroft nodded. "It's all right, Greg. You clearly need to rest, and I should return to my office. We can meet again next week, or later this week if you're feeling up to it by then."

"Yeah, I'll call and let you know." Greg eyed the bundle of sunflowers Mycroft had put in the water pitcher and a crooked smile crept across his face. "Ta for that, by the way." He chuckled softly.

Mycroft couldn't help the smile he returned, or the tight knot of emotion in his chest.

***

"You haven't bothered to go and see him?" Mycroft asked. He'd had to go to Sherlock's miserable little bedsit to speak with him, given that Sherlock refused to come to the Diogenes, which was perfectly comfortable and had excellent liquor. Unlike Sherlock's wretched hovel. Sherlock's stubbornness was really unconscionable. The conversation had started with a request for Sherlock to look into something for him, but turned toward Greg after Sherlock's adamant refusal to cooperate.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft in utter disbelief. "I caught the kidnapper despite having gone into the river after Lestrade in this absolutely hideous weather. That cost me over an hour, I might add, which was thoroughly inconvenient, but letting him drown would have been much more so. What else was I to do? He's of no use to me at the moment. Donovan wasn't entirely useless at the arrest, however."

Greg had never called. He'd been in hospital for several days, having become extremely ill despite the antibiotics. He had developed a high fever and Mycroft found himself quite concerned. "You do realise that people die of serious cases of _E coli_ , Sherlock. A number of worse things are also possible. He did nearly drown in the Thames, after all."

"Irrelevant. He will recover or he won't. In either case, there's nothing I can do about it. Visiting him won't change that, nor will worrying about him." Sherlock got up from his chair. "I have more important things to do. You can leave now."

Knowing he would get nothing further from his brother, Mycroft departed. A fine sifting of snow drifted from the overcast sky as Mycroft walked to his waiting car.

He had been by the hospital briefly every afternoon since Greg was admitted. Afternoon visits meant he could avoid Greg's wife, who was still quite hostile about Sherlock's role in her husband's illness. Her attitude toward Mycroft had not been any better, and he hadn't wanted to subject Greg to the stress of such problematic interactions. Mycroft wasn't so much visiting to have conversations with Greg as to reassure himself that the man was going to be all right. It had been a very long time since he'd been so affected by another person.

That afternoon he found himself standing in a hospital room for fifteen minutes just watching Greg sleep, his skin sheened with sweat, damp hair sticking to his forehead and temples. Mycroft leaned down slightly to touch Greg's arm, but the man didn't stir. Somehow, that only made the heaviness in Mycroft's chest worse.

***

It had taken a couple of weeks for Greg to recover fully from his ordeal. Mycroft had called him a few times after his release, just to check on him, for which Greg thanked him. The illness, however, had marked a turning point in Greg's relationship with his wife. Mycroft saw signs later that month that the woman had begun an affair of which Greg was unaware, but Mycroft was reluctant to speak of it. People rarely took such revelations well.

Their regular weekly dinner discussions continued; Greg expressed growing frustration with his relationship but buried himself in his work more deeply to compensate for his discontent at home. Sherlock ravaged his way in and out of Greg's life but remained mostly clean, in large part because Greg didn't hesitate to show up at Sherlock's flat and search the place if he suspected Sherlock of using.

At one point, Greg hadn't seen Sherlock for several weeks, and asked Mycroft about him. He was worried Sherlock had fallen off the radar and possibly back into his addiction, but Mycroft said no. "Actually, he's in Florida." He'd left quite some time back, but Mycroft knew Greg sometimes didn't see Sherlock for a month or so at a time.

"Florida? Your brother's taking a holiday? Doesn't sound like him."

"A woman he knows asked for his assistance; her husband stands accused of several murders there."

"Huh. So, what, he's gone to do his deduction thing and try to prove him innocent?"

"On the contrary," Mycroft said, feeling rather pleased with life. "He intends to prove him guilty."

"Oh," Greg answered. "Well, I'll wish him luck with that, then. Sounds right up his alley."

A few months later, he got a call from Greg, cancelling their usual evening. "Annie's been in a wreck," he said. "It's not life-threatening, but she's got a broken leg and they've got her in surgery putting a metal plate in there to fix it. Car's thoroughly buggered and we're lucky she wasn't hurt worse."

Mycroft drew a startled breath. "Oh, dear. That sounds awful. Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I wasn't there, but I've got to wait for her. I'll admit I'm a bit shaken up by it, though. Was getting ready to leave the office when I got the call about the accident. It's never a good feeling."

"I can't imagine it would be." He remembered how disturbed he'd been when he'd found out about Greg being hospitalised after the Hammersmith Bridge incident. Not actually having any plans for the evening beyond meeting Greg for dinner, he asked, "Would you like some company?" Greg had sounded quite upset and Mycroft thought he might want someone to talk to.

"You'd do that?" There was a hint of relief in the question.

"Of course. We were going to meet anyway, and I imagine it would be helpful to have someone to wait with."

"Yeah, thanks. That would be great."

"Shall I bring some takeaway?"

"God, yes. I swear, you're a saint, Mycroft."

Mycroft shook his head and chuckled. "I wouldn't go that far."

"You haven't any idea how much I need food and some company now." Mycroft could hear the stress and exhaustion in Greg's voice.

Mycroft arrived at the hospital armed with food and tea, as Greg was getting off the phone with his wife's family. Greg greeted him with relief and enthusiasm. They sat and ate while they waited, and Greg talked about having finally wrapped up a case that had been particularly emotionally affecting. He was dressed more formally than usual, which meant he'd spent most of the day in court. Mycroft had to admit he always rather enjoyed those days, as Greg looked very good in a suit. He'd been testifying in a case involving children; these always seemed to be the ones that bothered Greg the most. "We got a conviction, though," he said. "Bastard got the maximum sentence, and bloody well deserved it."

He watched as Greg leaned back in his chair and continued. "I understand, up here," he tapped his head with one finger, "some of the reasons people do things like that, but it's all so..." Greg trailed off, at a loss for words.

"You caught him, Greg. You put him in prison."

"It's just so damned senseless," Greg murmured. "Lives ruined, lives ended. Some days I just want to walk away, you know?"

Mycroft nodded. His own work dealt, often enough, in ruined and ended lives, on a greater scale than Greg might care to imagine. "Remember that you are doing some good, Greg. You're able to bring at least some semblance of justice into the situation." It was what Mycroft told himself, when he felt that same helplessness. He reached out and took Greg's hand. Greg held on tight, his hand trembling just slightly, not looking at Mycroft.

"I wish I believed that more often." Greg's mobile rang and he let go of Mycroft's hand to look at it. His response was more of a growl than anything else, a sudden apprehension on his face. "Sorry, I have to take this." Mycroft nodded and Greg got up and left the waiting room for a moment. When he returned, Mycroft could see he was furious, his body tight and his eyes dark with anger. "I am just not going to get a break," he spat. "I have to go, and Annie's going to fucking kill me when I'm not here for her once she gets out of surgery." That, too, was a feeling Mycroft was all too familiar with; his life was a series of emergency phone calls and sudden, personally detrimental changes of plan. "I'm sorry, Mycroft, but thanks for dinner and for coming by. I really appreciate it. I need to go find somebody and tell them why I won't be here when Annie's out. I'm going to be up all fucking night."

Mycroft stood, resting a hand on Greg's shoulder. "I understand. I'm sorry it's going to be difficult for you. I've had similar things come up before. Duty is what it is."

Greg nodded and shrugged, not mollified but calmer and resigned. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

***

Abandoning Annie in hospital only made things worse for Greg, and they'd had a huge row about it. He spent three nights sleeping on the sofa when she got home. God knew he was trying, but nothing he said or did made much difference anymore. He couldn't just quit his job, and that meant he was going to be on call, that he got dragged away late at night, that he stayed ludicrously late while active investigations were in progress, and that there really wasn't much he could do about it. There were reasons coppers had a sky high divorce rate; he didn't want to be yet another statistic on that graph.

Once she'd calmed down enough, which took a couple of weeks, he talked her into trying marriage counselling to see if there was anything they could do to salvage things. They worked on it for months before they found some equilibrium again. He didn't really want to talk to anyone at work about the whole mess, so he ended up dumping a lot of it on Mycroft, who listened with surprising sympathy. "You've listened to my all-too-frequent diatribes about Sherlock," Mycroft had said, "and you were right that having someone to talk with helped. I would like to return the favour."

He'd known the man for nearly five years now and, while Mycroft wasn't anything like his mates from work or the people he'd known growing up, he had somehow managed to become Greg's closest friend. If there was a small twitch of attraction in the back of Greg's mind, it was easily ignorable. He wasn't the sort to go chasing after someone else when he was already in a relationship, especially with all the effort he'd been putting into fixing the bloody thing. He loved Annie, he really did. Greg filed Mycroft under 'not in a million years' and carried on. If it meant he enjoyed Mycroft's company a little more than perhaps he ought, well, that wasn't wrong.

Sherlock had come through for him spectacularly a couple of months ago on a bomb threat case, managing to actually find the would-be bombers and the bomb itself before the device went off, and Greg finally felt that all those years of effort had paid off. There had never been any question in his mind that Sherlock was brilliant, that he had one of the greatest minds Greg had ever known, but this had shown Greg that there was a potential there for decency and humanity that he'd not previously thought Sherlock possessed. It didn't mean he was any less of a complete tosser, but Greg could see the barest glimmer of a good man under the arrogance and the anger, and it gave him a spark of hope. He still didn't know that much about Sherlock, but it was a start.

Over time, Greg had put together something of a picture of what Mycroft actually did as well, from small moments of vulnerability when he was tired or stressed, or from quiet moments when he was able to relax. Greg had been to Mycroft's office once, though it looked more like he was using it to store things than a place where he actually worked. The red phone on the desk was a dead giveaway that, whatever Mycroft did, it had nothing to do with occupying 'a minor position' in the government. Everything added up to some kind of intelligence analyst and troubleshooter on an international scale. He knew Mycroft had people he answered to, but they were somewhere in the political and bureaucratic stratosphere, as far as Greg was concerned. Mycroft had once let slip something about taking tea with the Queen; Greg knew it hadn't been name-dropping.

It all proved that at least some of what Sherlock had once told him about his brother was right -- Mycroft probably did moonlight as MI-6 and the CIA from time to time, but he wasn't exactly 007. More like M. The absurdity of the coincidence didn't escape him. Mostly the whole thing just served to leave Greg a little confused about why Mycroft had let him in at all. People like Mycroft didn't socialise with people like Greg, yet there they were, getting together for dinner once a week and talking with each other about things you only told to people you really trusted.

***

About eight months ago, Sherlock had started up a website on 'The Science of Deduction' and began officially advertising himself as a private detective, which meant he was giving Greg a lot less trouble about his 'boredom.' It was a relief, because he didn't have Sherlock making a nuisance of himself as often. It was easier on his team, particularly Sally Donovan, who had got off on the wrong foot with Sherlock almost immediately. Sherlock's antagonism of Anderson was even worse, and he tried not to have them in the same room together if he could avoid it.

Greg knew Mycroft had been appreciative of the fact Sherlock was finally getting his life back together. He had a long way yet to go, but it was a vast improvement over what Greg had seen five, or even three, years ago. Sherlock had, a couple of times, tried to find a flatmate, but none of them lasted long. Like that was any surprise. Greg knew Mycroft had talked to all of them, though Mycroft didn't say much about it. For all Greg knew, he was warning them off his loony brother. Greg wouldn't have shared a flat with Sherlock on a bet. Mycroft mentioned that he'd rather have Sherlock working for him -- behind a desk where he'd be safe -- but he was aware that he'd about a snowball's chance in hell of that happening. Not that those were Mycroft's exact words.

John Watson showed up out of nowhere on one of Greg's crime scenes, tagging along like Sherlock's shadow, and the only thing Sherlock would say at first was, "he's with me." Sherlock had got a lot more stable -- more human, really -- in the past year, but he was never going to be anything less than the world's most annoying git. He'd probably never act more than twelve, either. It was the price Greg paid for the help he sometimes needed to crack the worst cases. Greg still hated the way Sherlock needled him and his team, but the whole serial suicide thing had been downright bizarre, and Sherlock was the only person he thought might be able to figure out what the hell was going on. His stunt at the press conference had been humiliating and infuriating, but that was Sherlock in spades.

By the time Sherlock swept out of the building, John was bewildered, Donovan and Anderson were furious, and Greg was short one warrant card. Again. Bloody arse would probably find the suitcase he'd been rattling on about and not bother to tell them about it. No doubt it would be at Sherlock's new flat on Baker Street sometime soon. Wouldn't be the first time he'd tried to withhold evidence.

It was time for another drugs bust.

By the end of the night, there was a dead cabbie who'd been killed from across the way by someone who was a crack shot. Sherlock and John left for Baker Street, and Mycroft was waiting for Greg off in the distance, fancy black car and hot PA in tow. Greg took a few minutes away from the scene to walk over and talk with him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Pondering Doctor Watson," Mycroft told him, still staring off after his brother. "I'm still trying to decide whether he's going to be an asset or a dangerous encouragement."

"No idea. Seems like a nice enough bloke, though. You've never showed up like this before. Why now?"

Mycroft looked at Greg for a moment before speaking. "He's different, this one," Mycroft said, thoughtful. "Doesn't respond to intimidation. Exceedingly loyal. Nerves of steel."

Greg shot him a sharp glance, remembering what Sherlock had said. "Oh, bloody hell. It was him."

"Hm?"

"John. He shot the cabbie. Fuck." What the hell was he going to do now? Sherlock obviously knew, but from what he'd said about the timing of the shooting, John had acted in Sherlock's defence. "What am I supposed to do about this? God, I'm going to have to arrest him."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You _are_ down one serial killer."

Greg stared at Mycroft. "You're suggesting I drop it? I'm not a vigilante, Mycroft. Christ."

"No, but you are a man frequently frustrated by procedure and red tape. Would arresting John really serve the cause of justice?"

Greg's mind spun with the implications. He'd bent the rules for Sherlock more than once. The man had saved his life a few years back, and Greg had never forgot that. This, though; it was murder. John Watson had killed a man and walked away as though nothing had happened.

"He likely saved Sherlock's life, Greg."

"I hate it when you do that mind reading thing."

Mycroft shook his head. "Not mind reading, simply a response to your most likely concern."

"Fuck," Greg whispered, closing his eyes and covering his face with one hand. He knew what he was going to do, his heart was racing because of it, but he didn't have to like it. Sherlock was worth protecting, but Greg didn't want to think what this meant about him as a copper. Damn it, he was an honest man. Had been. Hoped maybe he still was. "Your brother's going to be the end of me, Mycroft."

He felt Mycroft's hand on his arm. "Not if I can prevent it. Never if I can prevent it." There was an intensity to Mycroft's voice he'd never heard before.

Greg opened his eyes and looked up at Mycroft. "If he's not got a proper permit for that thing, then I'd suggest you arrange for one. Now."

"Consider it done. And if John Watson turns out to be a hazard rather than a help, I will see to it that this is dealt with properly, without it damaging your career." Mycroft squeezed his arm and let go. "I'm quite serious, Greg. I have no desire to see my brother hurt, and I am not about to let you come to harm, either."

"Yeah. Good luck with that." Greg's stomach had a leaden knot in it.

Mycroft looked him in the eyes, that laser focused attention pinning him uncomfortably. "You don't think I can protect you, if necessary?" Greg wondered if this was a critical test of their friendship.

He shook his head, uneasy and quite possibly a little afraid. "I don't know where your limits are, Mycroft. Right now, I've no idea if that's a good thing or not."

"A fair answer. Let me say this, then. If you ever find yourself at odds with the Met because of Sherlock, I will find a place for you elsewhere that will make excellent use of your skills. I won't let you down."

"That's a promise, then, is it?" He trusted Mycroft, yet Greg knew he was in over his head. The only thing he could do now was throw himself into the rising tide and hope he'd be able to swim.

"It is," Mycroft said, nodding.

"All right. Just make sure that gun is legal."

"Of course." Greg looked back toward the controlled chaos of his crime scene. "I'll see you tomorrow evening, as usual?" Mycroft asked.

"Yeah. Of course. Thanks." Greg hoped he hadn't just made the worst mistake of his life.

***

Greg decided that John having a fit was a hell of a lot easier to deal with than Sherlock on his best days. Not hard, that, but still. John was pretty easy to get on with and Greg was puzzled by his ability to stay in the same room with Sherlock for more than a couple of hours. It was a feat Greg had rarely managed in all the time he'd known the man.

"Have you ever met his brother?" John asked.

Greg nodded. "Yeah, why?"

"Did he kidnap you? Offer you money to spy on Sherlock?" John gave him a serious look over his tea mug.

It was a near miss on spitting his tea across the table. "What?"

"That's a no then, I take it."

Greg shook his head firmly. "No! What, he really did that to you? Kidnapping and bribery?"

"He really did. Phones ringing all along the street as I walked by, CCTV cameras turning to watch me, veiled threats that weren't very veiled. His PA dragged me off to some abandoned warehouse where he was waiting for me. Creepy as hell." John sighed. "How'd you meet him, then?"

Greg could feel a smile forming on his lips. "Showed up at a crime scene a couple of days after I met Sherlock. Said he was from the Home Office and that he wanted to ask me some questions about Sherlock. Seemed odd but on the up and up, so I did."

"So he doesn't usually kidnap people?"

"I knew he'd talked to some of Sherlock's would-be flatmates before, but that's... a bit over the top." Admittedly, Greg could picture it, Mycroft looking dangerous and powerful. It was kind of hot and maybe a bit kinky, and he really didn't need his brain going there.

"Well, that's both of them, innit? Drama queens. Got to be a Holmes trait." John grinned.

Greg couldn't help laughing at that, and John joined him in it. He thought back to a few of Mycroft's more dramatic moments and said, "Yeah, I can't disagree with that. Can't resist a splash of mysterious, either of them. They're just running miles ahead of the rest of us. Suppose they can't help it."

"Probably not."

"He did tell me Sherlock thought of him as his archenemy."

"God, that was one for the books, yeah?" Both of them were still laughing because, really, it was completely insane if you thought about it. Who the hell had archenemies, anyway?

"Painted him like a Bond villain. First time I went to Mycroft's office, I wondered where the Angora cat and the shark tank were hidden." Greg giggled and took another sip of his tea. "How the hell do you manage to live with that lunatic, anyway? He'd drive me round the bend inside the first day."

John opened his mouth to say something, but it was drowned out by Sherlock bellowing up the stairs. "John! I have a case! Bring the bottle of Planaria from the kitchen!"

"Planaria?" John and Greg both asked, baffled.

" _Planaria_! I did not stutter!" Sherlock came dashing into the room.

"Good Lord, I don't even want to know," Greg muttered, not about to wait around for Sherlock's inevitably insulting explanations. "Ta for the tea, John. I'll see you later."

"I may have something for you later tonight, Lestrade," Sherlock said, not even looking at him.

"If it's something dead, talk to whoever's on duty. I'm not on call tonight." He got up and snagged his coat from the back of the kitchen chair and made a run for the door. The last thing he wanted was having to deal with Sherlock's insanity tonight; it was his weekly with Mycroft.

"But you're less of an idiot than the rest of them!" Sherlock's voice followed him down the stairs, but Greg was out on the pavement before he heard anything else. Less of an idiot. It was probably the best he'd ever get out of the tosser.

***

The string of bombings and the mad 'game' the bomber was playing with Sherlock, dragging him around London solving a frantic string of puzzles, left Greg shaken. He'd not seen anything even vaguely like it since back in the IRA days, and hoped never to again. If anything, this whole mess was even more over the top. Sherlock said the madman's name was Jim Moriarty, and from what Greg could make of what Sherlock and John told him, he had some sort of obsession with Sherlock going back to when they were kids.

Mycroft, when Greg talked to him about it, said, "This won't be the end of it." Considering it had started with an explosion on Baker Street, a bloody Czech assassin, a fake 'lost' Vermeer painting, and something mysterious involving Mycroft and national security, Greg was forced to agree. Somebody like Moriarty might go underground, but he sure as hell wasn't going away.

In the midst of it, Greg's marriage was falling apart around him. He and Annie separated for a few months, though he kept trying to make things right with her. She'd been going round behind his back and, when he found out, he'd been too hurt to stay. There were moments when he wondered why he bothered, but he was a little bit afraid of being alone again after so many years. It was taking its toll on his work, as well, but Greg toughed it out as best he could. Mycroft spoke with him more often, though they still mostly only met once a week; it helped keep Greg together and he was grateful.

***

Sherlock's cases were growing more and more high-profile, and the press was eating it all up with a spoon. He'd helped out on a few of Greg's cases, as well, and turned out some spectacular successes. Late in the fall, Greg ended up calling Sherlock in on a body found in the boot of a car. Normally, bodies found in car boots wouldn't be of much interest to Sherlock. The probability of it being gang-related was pretty high, after all. Except for the part where the bloke was supposedly on a plane that had crashed in Dusseldorf the day before. Things started getting really weird after that.

What bothered Greg most was the change he saw in Mycroft over the course of December. He looked harried and was obviously under a great deal of stress. "I can't really say anything about it," Mycroft told him, "but something dire is happening. I'm doing everything I can to address the problem but..."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Greg asked, worried.

Mycroft shook his head. "No. I got Sherlock involved and I shouldn't have. Things were much deeper and more serious than I had initially suspected. I'm uncertain what will come of it, but I fear it will be very, very bad." Greg found that terrifying. If _Mycroft_ thought it bad, Greg didn't even want to contemplate the scale of whatever it was. He wondered if he'd be seeing something suspiciously horrifying on the evening news anytime soon.

The week before Christmas, Greg thought he'd finally managed to reconcile things with Annie. He went to spend a little time on Christmas Eve at Sherlock and John's before heading out to Dorset in the morning, though that was entirely scuppered by Sherlock telling him the wife was cheating -- still? again? -- with a PE teacher. He left the party not long after, and spent the rest of the night getting thoroughly shitfaced. Needless to say, he didn't go to Dorset the next morning. In fact, he lodged a divorce petition as soon as the court opened again after the holiday.

Greg didn't see Mycroft again until after New Year -- which had, incidentally, involved a break-in at Baker Street and what Greg suspected was a CIA operative being repeatedly binned by Sherlock out his kitchen window. Greg wasn't even going to ask. That way led to madness.

Something bad had happened with Mycroft, though, beyond what he'd seen through December. He wouldn't tell Greg what, and Greg worried about him, wondering if it had to do with Sherlock's American 'burglar,' but that didn't mean they had nothing to talk about.

"Finally did it," Greg told him, still not sure if he was depressed or relieved.

"Sherlock told you about your wife."

Greg nodded, feeling defeated. "You knew, too, eh?"

"I'm afraid, so, yes." Greg couldn't read Mycroft's expression; his face was closed and there was an odd look in his eyes.

"At least you were polite about it," Greg said, sighing. It all hurt too damned much, still.

"I can't really say I'm sorry," Mycroft murmured. "It's been painful watching you try to repair what was irreparable."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Mycroft's eyebrows rose. "Would you have listened a year ago? Six months ago?"

"I suppose not. Eternal optimist, I am." For what good it did him.

"You'll be under considerably less stress now. I think you made the right decision, for what it's worth." Mycroft gave him a little bit of a smile and Greg tried to return it, not really feeling it yet.

"Yeah, you're probably right. You usually are." Greg shrugged.

***

Mycroft waited for three months after Greg filed for divorce, observing him closely the whole time, before he finally approached him. He needed to give his friend time to get past the worst of the emotional impact of the end of his relationship; it wouldn't do to rush the man. Mycroft had needed time to consider the implications of his own desires in the matter as well. There were a few months yet to go before the divorce would be final, but it was a mere technicality at this point. Mycroft was nothing if not patient. His entire life was founded upon the principles of playing a long game to attain his goals.

He was, admittedly, somewhat distracted by the continuing repercussions of Adler's 'insurance' and the mess Sherlock was making of the situation. He had a team working on the problem, however, and did not currently have a direct personal involvement in it. He still had some hope of salvaging things, though he was uncertain how damaging the result would be to his reputation and his career.

That said, Mycroft noted that over the past month Greg had begun to regard him with a more speculative eye. He had subtly encouraged it and felt that he had a very good chance of success. Earlier in the week he had called and suggested postponing their weekly evening until Friday and, unknown to Greg, a rather more romantic venue. Greg didn't usually work weekends, unless he had an active case or was on call; it meant if he were successful, neither would have to work the next morning. Greg had agreed to the change. It certainly wasn't the first time they'd had to reschedule, so it would not seem strange.

Upon his arrival at the restaurant, Greg looked around in confusion. "A bit more posh than our usual."

"Do you not approve?" Mycroft asked, as they were seated at their table.

"Oh, no, it's fine, I'm just a little surprised is all."

"Why is that?" Mycroft looked at his menu.

Greg eyed him over his own. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were staging a seduction here."

"What makes you think I'm not?" Mycroft shot Greg a wicked grin, and his eyes went wide. "Problem, Greg?" He couldn't help feeling slightly smug.

"I, erm, n-no. Not at all," Greg stammered. "Just... me?"

Mycroft laughed; Greg's fluster was charming. "Why not you? I do rather fancy you, you know."

It took a moment for Greg to regain his composure. "Oh. Right then. Carry on." Greg smiled back at him, and it made something in Mycroft's chest go tight in a very good way. "What's good here?"

Mycroft offered suggestions, and their dinner conversation was far more innuendo-laden than any of their previous evenings together. It was quite enjoyable, and the food and drink were delectable. Finally allowing himself to actually admit and pursue the attraction he felt towards Greg served only to deepen it.

As they were finishing their dinner, Mycroft asked, "Would you like to continue our evening at mine?"

Greg paused for a moment and smiled before he spoke. "I might," he said. "What did you have in mind?" The question was pure flirtation, but Mycroft's answer was serious.

"A more private conversation, my dear Gregory. Followed, perhaps, by something more intimate." With the suggestion, he finally allowed some of the long-hidden intensity of what he'd been feeling for Greg to show in his face, and in his voice; it was heady and Mycroft feared being overwhelmed by it. Greg's eyes grew darker.

"I think I'd like that, yeah." Greg smiled warmly and Mycroft returned it, reaching out. Greg reached out as well, laying his hand on the table, his palm open and exposed. Mycroft traced his fingertips gently through the hollow of it, his pulse quickening at the touch. "I think I'd like that a lot," Greg whispered.

Mycroft nodded and paid for the meal. "I'll drive, if you like," Greg said. Mycroft always had a car available, but the offer meant they could go together.

"That would be lovely." They left the restaurant hand in hand, but didn't speak much in the car beyond Mycroft giving Greg directions to the flat. He was preoccupied with the things he needed to tell Greg before their relationship could advance much further.

"Nice place," Greg said, looking about him when they arrived. Greg's casual glance about the flat was, Mycroft knew, less casual than it looked. While he was nowhere near as observant as Sherlock, or as Mycroft himself, Greg did understand how much a room, a space someone inhabited, could say about them.

"Thank you." Mycroft's flat was on the top floor of a building, with a view of a nearby park, though not much could be seen at this hour, in the darkness. The furnishings were classic and comfortable, with some antiques mixed in, the overall effect being harmonious, dark, and quiet. Books lined several of the walls. "Tea?"

Greg shook his head, not letting go of Mycroft's hand. He drew Mycroft close, taking him in his arms, and nuzzled at his face. Mycroft brushed his lips over Greg's and they kissed, soft and gentle. His heart sped and his breath quickened. "Tea later," Greg whispered.

Their embrace grew closer but, though Mycroft very much wanted to continue, he kissed Greg's cheek and said, "We do need to talk first."

He could tell Greg was uneasy, but very eager. "'Bout what? I did get tested a month or so back, and I'm clean, if that's what you're worried about."

"As am I, but that was not at the top of my agenda for our conversation," Mycroft told him. Greg looked vaguely puzzled but waited for him to continue. "Shall we take this to the sofa?"

"Yeah, sure." Greg nodded. Mycroft led him over and they sat together, Greg leaning back against the thick, cushioned arm of the sofa. Mycroft sat close to him, resting one hand on Greg's thigh; it was warm and the cloth under Mycroft's hand was slightly rough. Greg smiled at the intimacy of his touch and covered Mycroft's hand with his own.

"I assume you have some idea of what it is I do," Mycroft began.

"More or less," Greg said. "Secret Service, most likely. Something really high up, to do with intelligence, that much is obvious. I've no doubt you've already had me investigated six ways from Sunday. I do understand security clearances and nondisclosure, Mycroft."

Mycroft nodded. "Good, as far as it goes. If we are going to do this, you need to be aware that a man in my position has enemies. My title is not one you'll find on any list of government offices; as such, while I am a powerful man, I am also in a very precarious position. The nature of my work means that a failure on my part in the wrong project could be disastrous. These two factors taken together mean that associating with me as more than a friend is going to put you at risk. You understand that."

Greg looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. Politicians and that sort, they've got bodyguards and security for a reason."

"Precisely. I keep a very low profile, but such things are still necessary. Those who are aware of me are also very much aware of what I'm capable of doing."

"Not like I'm not used to being in a dangerous position in my own work."

"I know, but this is another level entirely. You will be under scrutiny by the highest echelons of power. You'll have very little real privacy because of our association. I could not even suggest this to you until after you had lodged your divorce petition because I can't afford to have any hint of scandal attached to me -- my brother causes enough problems for me on his own. Blackmail is a very real possibility. Kidnapping and the occasional assassination attempt are also potential risks. A misstep at the wrong moment, and losing my job would be the least of my worries."

"Yeah," Greg said, his voice soft. He sighed and looked into Mycroft's eyes. "Don't imagine I didn't figure that out myself. I do worry about you sometimes."

"Are you certain you're willing to place yourself in this position?" Mycroft watched him, trepidatious yet hoping for a chance at something more.

Greg nodded. "I think you're worth it."

"Thank you," Mycroft whispered. He relaxed and let himself lean against Greg, who slipped an arm behind him and held him as Mycroft rested his head on Greg's shoulder. It took them a moment to find a comfortable position, but the warmth was reassuring. "I'm not very good at casual," Mycroft said. "It's been a very long time since I was involved with someone -- back in the late 80s, actually -- and the occasional liaisons I've indulged in since then have been... I suppose cursory and anonymous are the best way to describe them."

"Why so long?" Greg asked, his fingers moving in a slow, idle arc along the back of Mycroft's shoulder.

"Things didn't end well," Mycroft said. "My partner died."

"I'm sorry," Greg murmured, pressing a soft kiss into Mycroft's hair. "Is it all right if I ask--"

"Yes, though it's not what you're thinking. I did lose a fair number of friends that way -- too many, in fact -- but not him."

Greg nodded, a ghost of sadness in his eyes. "Yeah, I think we all did. It was a rough time for everyone. What did happen, then?"

"Lockerbie," Mycroft said. Greg went still, breathless for a moment.

"Christ, I'm sorry."

"Douglas was twenty-eight, I was twenty-two. He was going off on holiday, and I was sorely disappointed that I wasn't able to go with him. A last-minute change of plans kept me from travelling with him." Mycroft was silent for a few minutes, thinking of what-ifs and might-have-beens; Greg didn't interrupt, just held him closer. It had been a long time, but Mycroft still felt echoes of that loss, even all these years later. "I had always intended to go into civil service. My father wanted me to be a diplomat, but I... was not tolerant enough of other people at that point in my life to be appropriate for such a position, nor did I want anything so visible. Douglas's death showed me what I had to do. I wanted... I wanted to be able to prevent something like that happening to anyone else."

"More than understandable," There was an unfamiliar gentleness in Greg's voice. He caressed Mycroft's shoulder, his palm trailing down toward Mycroft's elbow.

"I'd like to think I've had a few successes over the years," Mycroft said, his voice quiet and low. He turned slightly and tucked an arm behind Greg's waist so that they were in a partial embrace. It felt good to be so close to him.

"I wouldn't have any real way of knowing, but I'm sure you have done."

"I won't ask you for a commitment, Greg. It's far too early for anything of the sort. But I do want you to know that if this works out, I'd prefer it to be something long term." Mycroft's fingers traced slowly along Greg's jawline and down his throat, moving softly against the stubble there. It shivered through his nerves and Greg's eyes closed as Mycroft's fingertips reached his collar.

"Yeah, I didn't think you were the sort for a one nighter. Not with someone you knew, anyway." He sounded breathless. Mycroft pressed his palm to Greg's chest, feeling the rushing beat of his heart under his hand.

"We've known one another for nearly seven years. I'd like to think that many of the preliminaries have already been addressed. We have a good idea of how we get on together. Friendship and intimacy aren't the same, but I think we've enough common ground at this point that something significant is possible between us." He looked up into Greg's warm, brown eyes. "You know what I'm like; you understand the demands of duty, and long hours. You know that I have to leave the country for extended periods from time to time, and that there will be a great deal I can never discuss with you, no matter how much I trust you."

Greg leaned down and kissed him. "I think we'll be okay."

"I'm afraid I've been quite enamoured of you for several years now, Greg. Watching while you kept attempting to salvage your marriage was much harder than I would ever have imagined." Mycroft wanted to melt into Greg, to close his eyes and just let things happen as they would.

Greg smiled and shook his head. "Mycroft, I..." He let out a small breath that might have been a chuckle. "You've got no idea how much in awe of you I've been all these years. Not that I'd thought this was even a possibility until fairly recently, but I'm glad you'll give me a chance with you." He squeezed Mycroft and said, "Now, can we stop talking? I'd really rather be snogging you."

Mycroft laughed, a quiet sound muffled by Greg's neck. He kissed Greg's throat, drawing a slight shiver from him. "That sounds absolutely delightful," he murmured into Greg's ear. "I do, however, think we would be far more comfortable in my bedroom."

"Yeah. I'm not as young as I used to be. Making out on the sofa gets a bit awkward." He grinned as Mycroft rose to his feet and offered Greg a hand. Greg took it and Mycroft pulled him up into a hard, deep kiss, wrapping him in his arms. Greg's fingers fisted in the back of Mycroft's jacket, the length their bodies pressed close. They kissed, lips and teeth and tongues, until both of them were utterly breathless and panting.

"Come along," Mycroft said, his lips still brushing Greg's as he spoke. "If we don't get to the bed soon, I'm afraid I'll have you right here, and rug burns are so uncomfortable."

"God, you are wicked." Greg nipped Mycroft's ear and they separated. Mycroft led Greg into his room, turning lights off along the way and leaving only the bedside lamp lit. Greg made it a bit difficult to focus, closing in to nibble on Mycroft's neck, and sucking his fingers as they walked. Mycroft couldn't help the idiotic smile on his face; he was entirely too happy to have Greg with him, and far too aroused to think clearly.

Mycroft backed up with Greg in his arms until his legs bumped against the bed. He tugged at the buttons of Greg's shirt, pushing his jacket down his arms until it dropped to the floor. Greg's fingers were at the knot of Mycroft's tie, slipping the silk loose and sliding it from his collar. He tossed it heedlessly over his shoulder. Their mouths met again and again, breathlessly, both of them making soft sounds as they kissed. "I've wanted you so very much," Mycroft murmured, his teeth brushing over the stubble on Greg's jaw. "You're really unbearably handsome. Have you any idea at all how irresistible you are?"

Greg laughed and shoved Mycroft, hands against his chest, pushing him onto the bed. Mycroft bounced and Greg pounced and they tumbled together, arms and legs tangling. Mycroft couldn't remember the last time he'd been so happy about something this personal, this intimate. He laughed with his lover.

Shoes were kicked off and clothing discarded until they were naked from the waist up. Greg lay next to Mycroft, one hand moving through the rough hair on Mycroft's chest. "Look at you," Greg whispered, still smiling. "All those freckles." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh, don't look like that. I like freckles." He rolled Mycroft and kissed his back and shoulders, drawing damp circles on Mycroft's skin with his tongue. After a moment, Mycroft felt Greg making tiny patterns on his back with the tip of one finger.

"What are you doing?"

"Constellations," Greg murmured, kissing the place his fingertip had just vacated. "Let me see the rest of you." Mycroft moved to face Greg and they tugged off trousers and pants and socks; Greg looked at him with open lust in his eyes and Mycroft felt it in his belly, in his chest, in his cock. Mycroft took a moment to admire the absolutely gorgeous man in his bed before they wriggled close, body to body, and kissed frantically. Their legs tangled, and Greg's hand flowed down Mycroft's back to cup and squeeze one cheek, making a soft, deep, aroused sound that shivered through Mycroft's entire body. He pulled back from the kiss for a moment. "You have got the most amazing arse, Mycroft. Where the hell have you been hiding it all this time?"

"Inside my trousers, like everyone else does," Mycroft said, chuckling. "Now shut up and kiss me again." They did, moving together, breathing together, Mycroft holding Greg to him as their bodies heated. Mycroft was hard and wanting, thrusting slowly against Greg's equally hard cock, both of them caressing one another with hands and legs and lips. Mycroft ran the sole of one foot up Greg's calf, just allowing himself to feel. The rasp of rough hair on skin was hypnotic and intoxicating.

Greg rolled and shifted and began kissing and nipping his way down toward the small of Mycroft's back, pausing there for a moment, breathless. "God, you look even more amazing than you feel. I think I've found a new fetish." He nipped enthusiastically and Mycroft yipped, then giggled.

"Really, Greg." He laughed as Greg sucked at the curve of one cheek, making a mark there.

"No, I mean it. I love your arse." He looked up at Mycroft and their eyes met. Greg's sparkled with humour, dark and very alluring. "I'm pretty fond of the rest of you, as well."

"Please, my dear, feel free to do what you like with it, as you're so appreciative." Mycroft grinned wickedly. Greg growled and took Mycroft's cheeks in both hands, squeezing and rubbing. Mycroft angled his hips, pushing up into the warmth of Greg's palms, welcoming the sensuality of it. Greg took his time, kissing and licking and sucking on the firm gluteal muscle. It drove Mycroft quite out of his mind, until he was rutting into the bed beneath him, half mad with desire, hands fisting in the deep burgundy duvet.

He was hardly able to string one thought together with another by the time Greg slid up his back, covering him with his body. Greg's long, hard cock slipped between Mycroft's cheeks; it felt wonderful, though Greg was obviously not attempting penetration. His cock was slick with fluid and slippery between them and Greg's hips rocked as they moved together. He held Mycroft close, his hot, moist breath on the nape of Mycroft's neck. With one hand, he reached under Mycroft and took his cock in his fist. Mycroft moaned and thrust into it again and again, his body shimmering with his need.

"Yeah, yeah," Greg whispered, lips brushing against Mycroft's skin; he could feel the hair on his nape rise and he shivered. Their movement grew rougher and more frantic. When the fingers of Greg's other hand scratched their way down Mycroft's chest and across one nipple, Mycroft gasped and came, hard, shuddering under Greg's sensual assault. Greg's fist tightened around Mycroft's cock and he ground himself harder between Mycroft's cheeks, breathless and straining for his own release.

His hands moved, arms shifting, until they were under Mycroft's chest, his fingers digging into Mycroft's shoulders, clinging to him as he thrust frantically for a few moments. Greg's breath stuttered and he gave a sharp, deep grunt; Mycroft felt the hot splash of fluid on his bottom as Greg came on his skin, shivering, his still-hard cock smearing it up along the cleft between his cheeks and at the base of his spine. "Oh, oh, yes," Greg whispered, breathless, curling around Mycroft's body and kissing his shoulder, then settling, limp, on Mycroft's back, still holding him close. It felt wonderful.

They rested for a bit, catching their breath as the dark scent of sweat and semen hung in the air, then Mycroft rolled to his side and Greg shifted, until they were face to face in a surprisingly tender embrace. Greg's fingertips traced the arc of Mycroft's cheekbone as they held one another. "Thank you," Greg whispered. He kissed Mycroft's lips, soft and gentle, not pushing for anything but simply brushing, open-mouthed, his breath a susurration against Mycroft's skin.

"That was delightful," Mycroft murmured, when their kiss finally ended. He reached up and cupped the hand with which Greg was caressing his face and pressed his cheek into Greg's palm, then turned his face slightly and kissed the hollow of it. Greg made a soft, content sound. They lay, silent, in each other's arms until things began to get unbearably sticky.

"Shower?" Mycroft asked, nuzzling Greg's face.

Greg nodded. "Yeah. Sounds grand."

Mycroft hadn't shared a shower with anyone in years, but Greg's presence was comfortable, and they held one another under the falling water. They kissed softly but didn't start anything more involved as they washed each other. He'd missed this sort of thing terribly, never really thinking he could have it again, given his work and the risks involved. He'd shut himself off from his emotions and his desires for so long that he'd nearly forgotten how to experience them. Most of the people he knew were convinced he didn't have any; emotions were inconvenient and could be dangerous if they were used against him. Caring was not an advantage -- he'd tried so hard not to care, not to be vulnerable. At work, those feelings were a distinct liability, and he kept them under tight control; he could never allow them to influence the decisions he had to make. There was entirely too much at stake. Mycroft knew the weight of his responsibilities, and what he was risking, allowing Greg into his life this way, but the man was so entirely irresistible and Mycroft wanted him so much. Greg had broken him open, and Mycroft couldn't find it in himself to regret it.

They didn't talk under the water, not with words. Mycroft let his hands and his body speak of the profundity of what he'd just experienced, what he was still feeling. Greg returned his affection with tenderness and a sensual intensity that Mycroft found deeply affecting. Having this, he didn't want to lose it. It dug into his chest and held on with iron claws, and Mycroft welcomed the feeling.

After the shower, they dried one another with Mycroft's soft, thick towels, and crawled wordlessly beneath the covers. Mycroft lay on his back with Greg in his arms, resting his head on Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft nuzzled Greg's soft, greying hair as they settled into sleep.

***

Greg woke slowly, lying on his belly, with the warm weight of Mycroft's naked frame draped half over his back, one of Mycroft's arms wrapped loosely around him. Mycroft's breathing was slow and even on the back of his neck, still sleeping, and Greg just let himself float there for a while.

Last night hadn't exactly blindsided him, but he'd certainly been surprised. Of course Mycroft would have noticed Greg's growing interest -- the man was a bloody Holmes. He'd not have been able to help it, even if he'd wanted to. He was classy about it, though, because Mycroft never did anything that wasn't, and Greg had really enjoyed the whole thing.

Mycroft's warnings and questions were reasonable ones and they showed that Mycroft cared about Greg a great deal more than he'd wanted to admit. He'd wanted Greg's informed consent before putting him at potential risk, and that left a warm, light feeling in Greg's chest. He let his fingers thread between Mycroft's and pulled his sleeping lover's hand close. Mycroft's breathing didn't even shift. Still really out, then. It was just as well; Greg wasn't sure Mycroft had been sleeping well since whatever had blown up around the beginning of December last year.

He needed to move a bit but didn't want to disturb Mycroft, so he shifted carefully, slowly rolling over and taking Mycroft in his arms, just holding him and contemplating something vaguely like breakfast. Contemplating Mycroft and how their friendship had changed and deepened over the years -- why a man like that would even let him in at all. Greg had certainly never thought he'd end up here, holding him in the quiet morning light of Mycroft's ludicrously posh flat. Things like this never happened to Greg. He smiled, though, happy he didn't have to haul his arse out of the warm, comfortable bed and drag himself back to his office.

It was a while before Mycroft stirred, but Greg was content to just lie there half-awake and hold him. He was, perhaps, slightly surprised that Mycroft was one for sleeping close like this. Annie had never been much of a cuddler and had preferred her own side of the bed from the beginning; she just wasn't able to sleep with someone shifting around or touching her. Some people were sensitive that way, and Greg didn't take issue with it, but it was nice to sleep with someone who wanted to hold and be held.

Greg felt Mycroft's breathing change before he heard the small, quiet sound Mycroft made as he woke. His fingers tightened at Greg's waist and Greg pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Morning," he said, still quiet in the silence of the bedroom. Mycroft answered with a soft rumble in the back of his throat; Greg kissed his way down to Mycroft's mouth, but Mycroft turned his face to Greg's neck, avoiding the kiss.

"Teeth," he muttered.

Greg chuckled. "Yeah, I suppose that's a better idea." Morning breath wasn't that appealing, to be honest.

Mycroft's face turned up again and his eyes fluttered open, not quite focused. "Mmhm." He blinked, and Greg could almost see his brain switch on behind those blue-grey eyes. "Good morning," Mycroft said, and smiled at him. Greg raised his hand and gave Mycroft's cheek a lazy caress with the tips of his fingers and his thumb. "What time is it?" Mycroft's eyes drifted toward the bedside table.

"No idea," Greg said. He hadn't bothered to look. "Not working. Don't care. Some breakfast might be nice, though."

Mycroft agreed about breakfast, though he did insist on determining the time. Twelve minutes after ten in the morning: it was far later than either of them would usually be abed. They showered together, indulging in a slow mutual hand job under the hot, falling water, before dressing and making their way into Mycroft's kitchen. There wasn't much there in the way of what Greg thought of as breakfast food, given that Mycroft almost never had the time to cook, but there was fruit and some cheese, and bread for toast. They drank Mycroft's delicate loose-leaf Darjeeling -- not nearly enough to stand your spoon up in, much to Greg's disappointment, and barely enough to really wake him up -- and sat at the dining table looking out over the park below as they ate and sipped at their tea.

"I should take you out for an actual breakfast," Greg said.

"What was wrong with this?" Mycroft asked, snagging the last strawberry from the bowl with his fingers.

Greg shook his head. "I'll feel empty as a mining pit here in about two hours."

"In two hours, it'll be time for lunch," Mycroft answered, as though that were the answer to everything.

"There is that. I'll need to get clean clothes soon, though." Greg didn't care for having to wear his work clothes two days in a row. Mycroft, being home and not expecting to go in to work, had put on some immaculate tan trousers, a pale cream button-down oxford shirt in a subtle check, and a dark red tie that matched the lines in the shirt, which was probably what passed for thoroughly casual with him. Greg had only ever seen him in three piece suits and, while Mycroft looked fantastic, it was still a bit startling to see him dressed so informally.

"I was hoping you might spend the day with me," Mycroft said, sounding slightly disappointed.

Greg got up and went round the table to wrap his arms around Mycroft, standing behind him. "I'm not saying I want to go home, I'm just saying I need to get some clean clothes. We could go together, then grab some lunch, yeah?"

Mycroft nodded, appeased. "All right. I just had... last night was quite enjoyable and I didn't really want it to end so soon."

"Me, either." He tugged Mycroft up and turned him, embracing him. "Don't worry, you won't be rid of me that easy." He smiled at Mycroft, who blushed and smiled back.

"Good." Mycroft tilted his head down and kissed Greg; a long, slow, comfortable snog that left Greg leaning into him, slightly breathless.

Their quiet moment was interrupted by a text from Sherlock about one of Greg's cases. Greg sent back a terse _Not now. Talk to me Monday._ and stuffed his mobile back in his pocket.

"He's going to wonder about that, you know," Mycroft said.

Greg shrugged. "Yeah. I know. Don't care. Let's go to mine so I can get clean clothes."

When they got there, Sherlock was waiting for him. He looked up from where he was seated in one of Greg's chairs as they entered, and his eyes widened. "Oh, god. I do _not_ want to know." He closed his eyes and waved his hands in front of his face, snapping, "Delete! Delete! Oh, god, why do you do this to me, Mycroft? You cannot stand to stay out of my affairs and so you end up fucking my--"

"This is not about you!" Greg barely resisted an urge to punch the man. "If you'll just bugger off, Sherlock, your brother and I can get on with our day. I told you, I'm not working today. Whatever the hell it is, it can wait until Monday."

Sherlock bolted to his feet. "No, it can _not_ \-- it was the brother-in-law and he's about to leave the country. Today. If we go _now_ we can catch him."

Mycroft glared and Greg groaned. "Right, right." He turned to Mycroft. "I'm sorry, I really--"

"Yes, I do understand," Mycroft sighed. "Duty calls." He reached into his pocket for his mobile as he tilted his face down and kissed Greg, tangling his fingers in Greg's hair. Sherlock made a disgusted sound and turned his back with a flounce. "I'll call for my driver. Will I perhaps see you this evening?"

"Depends on how long this takes, but yeah, I'd like that." He tried to smile at Mycroft but wasn't really feeling it. Nothing like Sherlock for cockblocking him with work.

"Will you stop!" Sherlock bellowed.

"Shut it!" Greg shouted back, furious and frustrated.

"Leaving now. Come with me," Sherlock answered, dashing for the door.

Greg shot an apologetic look to Mycroft. "Lock up on the way out, yeah?"

"Of course." Mycroft looked like he wanted to drop a brick wall on his brother. Or possibly a tank. They shared another quick kiss and Greg ran after Sherlock, vowing vengeance, preferably cold and with a glass of fucking chianti.

***

Sherlock mocked Greg about dating Mycroft every time he saw the man for at least three weeks. It got exhausting, and Greg's patience wore very, very thin. John was the only thing that kept Greg from laying Sherlock out on the floor of his office at Scotland Yard, more than once. Probably for the best, as it wouldn't have looked good, having a Detective Inspector arrested for assault in his own office. Not that his own team would have done it, of course. They'd probably have stood by cheering when he cold-cocked the bastard. Greg wouldn't have put it past Dimmock, though; the kid was a little over-eager to get the competition out of the way, even if he thought Sherlock was a tosser too.

He'd had a date scheduled with Mycroft late one afternoon, as they were both supposed to have a little extra time off that day, but Mycroft didn't show up, and he didn't call. It was enough to be seriously worrying, as Mycroft never disappeared without any notice. He always called, or at least had his PA ring him up, and he knew Greg worried about him.

Greg spent all evening looking for Mycroft, and finally ended up driving out to Mycroft's country house. Mycroft didn't even look up when Greg came in; he was seated at the dining table in the dark, his head in his hands, with an empty glass at his elbow. His face was a drained white, eyes wide with what looked like absolute horror.

"Mycroft?" Greg spoke softly, not wanting to startle him. Mycroft didn't move so Greg walked over to him and lay one hand on his shoulder. "Mycroft, what's happened?" It had to be something awful.

Mycroft swallowed visibly and blinked, then looked up at Greg. He shook his head. Greg pulled a chair up next to him and took him in his arms, not knowing what else to do. Mycroft let him, and Greg could feel him trembling slightly.

"Your PA said you were here," Greg murmured. "Wouldn't tell me what was going on."

"A disaster," Mycroft answered, so quietly that Greg could barely hear him. "More than five years of work, destroyed. Lives were lost. I..."

"I'm sorry," Greg whispered, deliberately not asking after details. He knew better.

Mycroft took a slow, shuddering breath. "I should never have put Sherlock on it. Never. I had no idea. I tried to get him to drop this months ago."

Greg went cold. "Is he all right?" He'd not heard from Sherlock in a few days and that suddenly seemed very sinister.

"For the moment."

"And you?" Greg stood and took Mycroft's hand. He tugged Mycroft to his feet and led him into the parlour, then pulled him down into his lap on the sofa, holding his lover.

Mycroft rested his head on Greg's shoulder and took a deep breath. "Moriarty's involved."

That only served to chill Greg down to his bones. "That lunatic with the bombs?"

Mycroft nodded. "At the moment, I am desperately trying to find a way to avoid Sherlock's being charged with treason."

"Christ." The thought was dizzying, but what Mycroft said next nearly destroyed him.

"I don't know that I'll be able to avoid it, myself. Unless things change drastically, I suspect the least problematic outcome would be that I lose my job. But I'd rather it be me affected than him." Mycroft looked up at him. "It might be best if you left. If you were harmed by this, as well--"

"No." Greg shook his head in a sharp, firm motion. "I'm not leaving you. I don't care what's happened. I'll never believe either of you are traitors. If Moriarty's involved, it was a setup."

"Yes, it was. And I will need to go and speak to my brother in a few hours. The scope of this debacle cannot be overstated, Greg. I don't want you involved." Mycroft sat up, one hand on Greg's chest. "Go back to London. It's not safe to be around me right now." Greg opened his mouth to protest, but Mycroft spoke first. "I insist. I'll call you when I know if this is salvageable in any way at all."

"I want to help."

"There's nothing at all you can do. Nothing." Mycroft's voice held an iron finality.

The thoughts rushing through Greg's head at Mycroft's words were terrifying. A dozen nightmare scenarios flashed by, each worse than the last, half of them involving Mycroft dead, or Sherlock, or both of them. "Are you going to live through this?" he asked. From what he could tell, Moriarty was an insane fucking son of a bitch, and he wouldn't put it past the man to try killing both of the Holmes brothers. The bastard might well succeed.

"I expect so." Mycroft didn't sound entirely convinced. "Please, Greg. Go."

"I don't want to leave you," Greg said, quiet in the darkness.

"You must. The matter is very highly classified, it involves terrorists, and I have to deal with it as best I can. I'm not entirely without resources, even now." There was no arguing with Mycroft over that, much as Greg hated the thought. "I will call you. I promise you that. The very moment I'm able." Mycroft stood and, even in the darkness, Greg could see the change in him. His mask was firmly in place, a cold and menacing competence that closed Mycroft off completely.

"I'll wait at your flat," Greg said, praying Mycroft would return.

Mycroft looked at him, silent. His weight shifted and he stood taller. "I'll meet you there tomorrow if I'm able." He turned and walked away, leaving Greg to stare after him, numb.

***

Greg slept alone at Mycroft's flat that night. More accurately, he lay awake in Mycroft's bed, worrying and wondering what was happening. He hated it. He hated not knowing, and the fact that he couldn't even ask about it if -- _when_ \-- Mycroft returned. Greg had known walking into the relationship that this had always been a possibility, but living it was awful. Even this, though, couldn't make him regret what they had together.

About four in the morning Greg gave up on the whole trying to sleep thing and got up again. He got dressed and made himself tea, then picked up a book. He couldn't focus on it and, after half an hour or so, he put it down. That led to restless pacing. And staring out of windows. And picking up his phone to see if Sherlock had texted or Mycroft had called and he'd somehow missed it. Then starting the whole thing over again from the pacing bit.

He was smoking a cigarette when Mycroft called, late the next morning; nicotine patches just weren't enough to cope with the anxiety he felt as he waited. "I'll be home shortly," was all Mycroft said. Greg hadn't time to say a word before the call ended.

When Mycroft finally arrived, Greg nearly threw himself on the man. "Are you all right?"

Mycroft set down his briefcase and umbrella on the coffee table and enveloped Greg in his arms. "Yes."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes. We've managed to salvage the situation." There was relief in his voice, and Greg felt a thousand pounds lighter.

"You still have a job, then."

Mycroft nodded, his cheek brushing Greg's. "Yes, though my reputation did suffer somewhat. I'll have to be careful for a while."

Greg took Mycroft's face in his hands and looked at him. "That's a lot better than any of the alternatives you talked about last night."

Mycroft let go of Greg and bent to open his briefcase. "Precautions will need to be taken." He took a pistol in a shoulder holster out of it and held it out to Greg. "You're to carry this from now on."

"I'm not authorised."

"You are now." There was a hard, cold look in Mycroft's eyes. "Take it."

He supposed he really oughtn't be surprised by this. "Right." He took the gun. "Explain." He had a few guesses, but wanted to hear it from Mycroft.

"As I told you last night, Moriarty managed to end one of my projects and do some very serious damage to my reputation, at least temporarily, but he was not able to take me down. While his primary target is Sherlock, I am very much in his sights as well. And that means that you, also, are a likely target, Greg. I won't have you walking around without... options." Mycroft looked absolutely grim as he spoke. "The nature of your work means that putting a security detail on you is impractical at best. I would prefer you be able to defend yourself if it becomes necessary. And I expect you to do so."

"I don't like the idea of carrying, Mycroft." He was torn on the whole concept. Greg knew how to use a handgun. He was qualified, kept up on his practice, but had never been routinely armed at work. Moriarty was pretty damned terrifying, though. On the other hand, John had told him about being grabbed off the street and strapped into a vest filled with semtex. It wasn't encouraging; John had been armed, and it hadn't exactly done him any good. Greg wasn't sure what to think.

"Please." Mycroft's voice was quiet, but there was an intensity to it that made Greg shiver. "I'm very worried about you right now."

"Okay. I'll do it." Greg looked down at the pistol. He set it on the table and looked back up at Mycroft. "I'm not entirely an idiot."

Mycroft's icy façade broke, and Greg could see the fear in his eyes as Mycroft took him in his arms again, holding him with something akin to desperation. "I have never for an instant believed you were," Mycroft whispered. Greg held on with all his strength.

***

Things were relatively quiet for a while, as life with the Holmes brothers went. Greg finally took a long-deserved holiday to a warm, sunny place and got himself a tan, but when he got home, it was back in the deep end. "I need you to go to Dartmoor," Mycroft told him.

"What, Dartmoor? Why? What's your idiot brother done now?"

Mycroft sighed, shaking his head. "He's stolen one of my identification cards and got access to a top secret military research facility. Please, for god's sake, try to keep him out of trouble, would you?"

Greg crossed his arms over his chest. "Why don't you just go?"

"When has he ever listened to me?" Mycroft paced around him as he stood there.

"There is that. But I expect to be amply rewarded for my services, Mycroft." He raised an eyebrow. "I don't fancy getting myself shot by military security."

"You needn't go on the base, which means you won't be shot at by security. Just don't tell Sherlock I sent you." He leaned over Greg as he stood behind him and nibbled on the nape of his neck. It sent a little shiver down Greg's spine. Greg rolled his eyes.

"He'll know anyway and you know it."

"Most likely." Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg's waist and sucked at the place he'd nipped.

Greg sighed and closed his eyes. "Do I have to leave right now?" Running after Sherlock like a bloody sheepdog was really not how he'd wanted to spend his first day back with Mycroft.

Mycroft's chuckle was warm and wicked in his ear. "I don't suppose a couple of hours' delay would be a problem." It wasn't.

A few days and at least one hallucinogenic gassing later, Greg returned with Mycroft's ID in hand. "You could have warned me," he grumbled. "And really, unlimited access to military research facilities? Is there anything you _don't_ have your fingers in?"

"That would be telling," Mycroft answered, smug, taking his card back from Greg. He looked at it and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. "Suffice it to say, you've protected my reputation in this matter and I am extremely grateful."

"There was a minefield, Mycroft. A _minefield_. Explosions are _not on_. Neither are hallucinogens. The situation was completely insane, and a man died."

"You weren't harmed. And a program that was being illegally carried out was ended. I'd say it was a reasonable result."

Greg glared at Mycroft. "That could have been my arse getting blown off, you know. And after all this time, your _brother_ didn't even know my name. Talk about adding insult to -- well, okay, Sherlock is always insulting, but that hurt. I've known him for seven sodding years now, and he had no idea I even had a first name."

Mycroft sighed. "Greg."

"What?" Greg was determined to not simply let it go. He hadn't been warned about the minefield, and the hallucinations hadn't been fun, either.

"I apologise. I should have sent you in better prepared. There's nothing at all I can do about Sherlock, but I could have briefed you rather better about the base. I was uncertain exactly what was happening at Baskerville. Had I known that hallucinogens would be used on you, I certainly would have warned you. You deserve better from me." Mycroft actually managed to look contrite.

"Did you really just apologise to me?" Greg wasn't quite sure he believed it.

"Is that so hard to believe?" Mycroft held out a hand to him. Greg took it; Mycroft raised it to his lips and kissed it. "I do care for you, you know. This was a situation where you were the only person I could trust, and you handled it very well."

Greg melted a bit at that, despite its echo of Sherlock's 'handler' accusation. It wasn't often anyone got a vote of confidence from a Holmes, so it was something to be cherished. "Well, all right, then. Just, let's not do this again, shall we? You want me to save your brother's arse, you need to tell me what I'm up against when I go in there for you."

"I understand." Mycroft pulled him close and looked into his eyes, assessing. "And, on that note, there is something you need to be aware of, Greg." His voice was guarded. "I shouldn't tell you, but I can't leave you in the dark on this. It would be too dangerous."

"What is it?" Greg didn't let Mycroft look away.

"I can't give you all the details, and I'm sorry for that fact. National security. We had Moriarty in custody for some time, but... we had to release him. I had no choice. Things are going to get extremely dangerous. I am doing everything in my power to find a way to deal with him permanently, but I can't entirely predict what will happen at this juncture."

A cold knot formed in Greg's stomach. "Do Sherlock and John know?"

"Sherlock does. But I want you to be very, very careful, Greg. I need you to watch your back at all times." Mycroft sighed again. "I've had to do some extremely difficult things that may well have created further problems. I can't be certain. Moriarty is as brilliant as he is deranged. He's unpredictable and that makes him more dangerous than you can possibly imagine. I know he has a mole in a position close to me."

"Will he come after you?" Greg tucked his hand under Mycroft's jacket, running it up his back. He knew the answer in his bones already.

"I assume so, yes. But it may not be a direct attack. He's too fond of complications to simply send an assassin. He wouldn't find that satisfying or humiliating enough. Whatever happens, it will be large and it will be public, and it will certainly involve Sherlock. At the moment, I believe Sherlock's life is in far more danger than my own."

"Do you have any idea what Sherlock will do?" Berk or not, Sherlock was still his friend, and so was John.

"No." Mycroft brought him to the sofa and they sat. "We've talked, though. At the moment, Moriarty believes that he's managed to drive a wedge between us. We must preserve that illusion."

"I've never seen Sherlock be kind to you, even once. To hear him talk, you'd think he hates you." Greg had never been entirely sure that Sherlock didn't.

Mycroft shook his head. "We've had a difficult relationship for many years now, Greg. You know that. But he has never genuinely wished me harm, nor I him. I've always done my best to protect him."

"I know. I've seen you do it, and I've seen how ungrateful he's been. It's been worse lately and, to be honest, I resent how he treats you." He still had frequent urges to punch the wanker, and not just on Mycroft's behalf.

"It's deliberate, as is the increase in Sherlock's animosity of late. Moriarty believes he can defeat us if he can take us on separately. His chances of succeeding are greatly diminished with Sherlock and I working together, but we can't let him know what we're doing. Believe me when I tell you that we are, no matter what it looks like on the surface." Mycroft's words were urgent and his fingers tightened on Greg's arm. "I don't know what will happen. I don't know if this will work. I'm doing everything I can to mitigate the threat, but I can't predict the results. And in all of this I'm also very aware that you are in an immense amount of danger. Moriarty knows about you, and what you are to me. It's quite likely he will try to get to me through you, and you need to know that."

Mycroft shook his head and leaned in, pressing his forehead to Greg's, running one thumb over Greg's cheekbone. "I care for you so very much," Mycroft murmured. "I wish there were a way to keep you entirely out of this, but there isn't. You are my lover and my brother's friend and as such you are uniquely vulnerable. Please, Greg, be careful. I don't know how long this will take and I can't keep you safe."

"Why are you telling me this now?" Greg asked, his voice quiet. He covered Mycroft's hand with his own, pressing it to his cheek.

"It happened while you were in Dartmoor. I had hoped to find a way to keep him in custody but, since he's been released, we can't control him. Right now, we can't even find him." Mycroft kissed him, a soft press of lips on lips, lasting only a few moments. "I shouldn't have said anything at all -- you aren't cleared for the information -- but I couldn't leave you ignorant of this, couldn't jeopardise your life like that. At least you'll know to exercise caution."

Greg pulled Mycroft into a harsh, desperate kiss. He knew what Mycroft had risked, telling him this. It more than made up for what he'd found in Dartmoor, and he was grateful for it, even if the information left him very much afraid. "Thank you, Mycroft." They held one another, and Greg rested his head on Mycroft's shoulder. "If you're worried about Sherlock, I have no idea how I'm going to stand a chance against this bloke, but I'll be careful as I can."

"It's all I can ask. If you have any reason to suspect you might be in trouble, call me. I'd rather send someone out on a false alarm than have something happen to you." Mycroft held him, his fingers moving slowly through Greg's hair. It was calming, even if nothing else about the situation was.

"I will. I promise I will."

***

Sherlock's star was rising fast, and Greg's along with it. They worked together on several high-profile cases and, even though the press wasn't kind to Greg regarding Sherlock's involvement, his superiors were happy with the successes. Peter Ricoletti, who had been number one on Interpol's Most Wanted list for decades, was brought in under his watch with Sherlock's help, and the entire department celebrated. The deerstalker they'd given to Sherlock at the press conference party was meant to pull his leg, but their gratitude was genuine.

And then everything collapsed. Three impossible crimes on the same day left Greg scrambling -- the Tower of London, the Bank of England, and Pentonville Prison, all compromised at the same moment. The entire Metropolitan Police had been called out to try to contain the chaos, and Greg was on hand for the arrest of one James Moriarty at the Tower.

It shouldn't have been so easy. The man was taunting them. None of it made sense until much, much later.

***

While Moriarty's trial was in preparation, Greg and Mycroft dropped by Baker Street because Mycroft had something he wanted Sherlock to look into. It would be several weeks before things went before the magistrate, even with Moriarty caught right there in the Tower, wearing the bloody crown jewels. Proper procedure had to be followed, after all.

"It would only take you out of the country for a few days, Sherlock," Mycroft said, standing near the table in the lounge. Sherlock and John were seated in their usual places, looking up at him. Greg was hoping they wouldn't have to stay long, as they had an afternoon planned that didn't otherwise involve work or Mycroft's annoying sibling.

Sherlock shook his head and waved his violin bow at his brother. "No, I've got too much else going on right now. Give it to one of your lackeys, Mycroft. I have no interest in a Slovenian holiday." Sherlock snorted. "Slovenia. Really."

"Yeah, well, Trieste is right next door to Italy," John said, sounding a bit hopeful. "Never been to Venice. Always wanted to go."

"Boring." Sherlock plucked at a string several times. It was out of tune and he glared at it.

"By what scale could Venice possibly be boring?" John demanded.

Greg actually thought a trip to Venice sometime would be just the thing. He turned to Mycroft to say as much and his heart stopped when a pinpoint of red laser light appeared on Mycroft's temple.

He didn't think. Greg heard himself shout, "Get down!" and tackled Mycroft. Everything felt frozen in time. He heard the sound of a bullet breaking glass, saw John and Sherlock both moving, felt the coffee table crack into his shin in a sharp blast of pain, then he and Mycroft tumbled onto the sofa and fell, ending up on the dirty carpet. A moment later, he was panting and John was next to the window, the curtains drawn and swinging, giving them some cover. Sherlock ran for the kitchen and vanished, but Greg's breath caught when he saw Mycroft.

He'd been hit, and there was blood all over his face. Greg thought he'd reacted too late. Mycroft was still for too long, then groaned, and one hand moved. Greg realised that there was -- thank god -- no brain matter splattered on the floor with them. "No, Mycroft, don't move."

Then John was next to them, looking Mycroft over as Greg pulled his mobile out and rang the panic number. Anthea didn't even finish getting a word out before Greg told her, "Sniper. Mycroft's down."

"Where?"

"Baker Street."

"On it. Security team and an ambulance on the way."

Greg dropped the mobile and put a hand on Mycroft's shoulder to still him; the damned fool was trying to sit up.

"Stay there, Mycroft. Don't move," John said, as Greg held Mycroft down. "I've got to get the first aid kit."

"Backup is on the way," Greg told him. He looked around. "Where the hell is Sherlock?"

"Out the kitchen window." John ran for his kit.

"Can you talk to me, Mycroft?" Greg asked, his heart going triple time, cold with shock. He took Mycroft's hand.

Mycroft's hand tightened in his. "I have the most... horrific headache," he muttered. It was a little slow and hesitant, but that was really only to be expected. Greg pulled the pocket square out of Mycroft's jacket pocket and pressed it to the wound, wanting to stop the bleeding.

"I believe it." Mycroft groaned as Greg applied pressure. John dashed back in and moved Greg's hand to have a look.

Greg heard feet on the stairs, running. "Security team!" a voice called, but Greg drew his pistol anyway and trained it on the door. Two big, beefy men that Greg recognized as Mycroft's people hurried in, and Greg lowered his weapon.

"That was fast."

"Always nearby, sir," the broader one said. "What's the situation?"

Greg gestured toward the window with his head as John worked on Mycroft. "Shot came in there. Laser sight. Sherlock's gone looking for the shooter, I think. Went out the back."

"Ambulance will be here in about five," the other one said, a finger at the receiver in his ear.

"You're going to A & E, Mycroft. You need an x-ray and a CT scan." John was insistent. Used to Sherlock's stubbornness, no doubt.

Mycroft looked up at John, his eyes still a little unfocused, his face lined with pain and covered with his own blood. "I am not my brother," he said. "Of course I'm going to be looked at." His eyes closed and he made a soft, pained sound, shivering slightly.

"You're going to be all right," Greg told him, not paying attention to the surroundings now that they had security on site. He tugged a throw from the sofa and covered Mycroft with it to try and keep him warm and more or less comfortable. God, that had been too close.

"He'll need some stitches," John said as he finished applying a bandage to the cleaned wound. "Not sure if there's any fracture." He spoke to Mycroft again. "You'll likely be released after you're stitched up, unless this is worse than it looks. You'll have a nasty headache for a few days, though." By now they could hear the wail of the ambulance siren in the distance, growing closer.

John's mobile sounded with a text. He stripped off his gloves and pulled it out of his pocket. "Sherlock's following the shooter."

"Good," Greg said. "Must have been one of Moriarty's."

Mycroft tugged at Greg's hand. "Not necessarily." He blinked a couple of times and grimaced in pain. "I can think of at least five possibilities."

"Crap," Greg whispered.

A couple of minutes later, the ambulance arrived and Greg rode with Mycroft as he was transported. He waited while Mycroft was x-rayed and put through a CT scan, pacing in the waiting room. One of the security team, Brandon, stayed with him, while the other remained with Mycroft. John had followed along, staying in touch with Sherlock as he chased down the would-be assassin.

It was about forty-five minutes before he saw Mycroft again. He'd been stitched up, but he was pale and still shaky, leaning on the arm of Dennings, his security man. "There's no fracture, and no significant trauma," Mycroft said. "I'm to go home and rest for a day or so."

Most of the tension Greg had been holding released at that. He let out a relieved breath. "How do you feel?"

"My head aches abominably and I'm still slightly dizzy, but I'm otherwise all right."

Greg nodded. "Right, then." He looked to Brandon. "Looks like you lot are driving us back to Mycroft's flat."

"Of course, sir. Dennings'll bring the car around for you." Dennings nodded, handed Mycroft off to Greg, and hurried off, pulling keys from his pocket as he walked.

Mycroft rested against him in the car and Greg kept an arm around him as they went into his building. The security team stationed themselves outside the door of Mycroft's flat and Greg kept a hand on his arm as they entered. Greg made sure Mycroft got tucked into bed as soon as they got there, then made some tea for them. When it was ready, he brought it into the bedroom and handed Mycroft a cup.

"You've still got blood on you," Mycroft said.

Greg looked at his hands. He'd washed up and they were clean, but there were spatters on his clothes, and probably on his face and in his hair as well. "Right, I'll clean up." He tugged his jacket and shirt off; he had clean clothes at Mycroft's these days, as he spent the night fairly frequently. Once he'd made himself presentable, he returned and sat with Mycroft, leaning against the headboard.

Crisis over, Greg found himself shaking. "That was way too close," he said.

Setting his teacup down, Mycroft took Greg's hand and tugged him down into an embrace. "It occurs to me," he said, "that there's something vitally important I've neglected to tell you." He kissed Greg's neck and his cheek.

Greg lifted his head and looked at him, puzzled. "What's that?" He caressed Mycroft's jaw, his hand trailing up Mycroft's face to move very gently over the bandaged wound.

"I love you, Gregory Lestrade." It was there in his eyes, written on his face, and it stole Greg's breath entirely. "I didn't want you never to hear it from me."

Greg leaned in and kissed Mycroft, slow and sweet. "I love you, too, you know." His thumb slipped over Mycroft's wet lower lip.

"I know. You can't imagine how grateful I am for that fact."

"Yeah, me too." Greg lay against Mycroft, holding him close, not wanting to think about what had nearly happened. He pressed his ear to Mycroft's chest and listened to his heart beat, and the breath in his lungs, eyes closed. Mycroft's fingers moved softly in his hair. They lay there, silent, for a long time.

Mycroft was sleeping when Sherlock entered; Greg had a pistol in the intruder's face before he realised who'd come in. "There's no need for that, Lestrade," Sherlock said, his voice soft in deference to his sleeping brother.

"Give a guy some notice, would you? If I hadn't left the light on, I'd have shot you."

"You'd have heard a struggle in the corridor. Mycroft's security team isn't entirely incompetent."

"Yeah, but I don't have to trust 'em, do I?"

Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile that disappeared almost as soon as it appeared. Greg was kind of surprised Sherlock hadn't launched into disparaging remarks already. "Quite."

Greg turned to Mycroft and squeezed his shoulder gently. "Mycroft, love, Sherlock's here. Wake up."

Mycroft's eyes fluttered open and focused quickly. Greg was glad to see it. "Sherlock." He started to sit up, but Greg kept a hand on his chest.

"It's all right. Just rest, okay?" He looked back at Sherlock. "Well? One of Moriarty's?"

"No." Sherlock shook his head. "That CIA lackey, Neilson."

"What? That bloke you binned over New Year? The CIA put a hit on Mycroft?" Greg couldn't believe that.

Even Mycroft looked a little surprised at the idea. "No," Sherlock said. "He was acting on his own. He was a bit miffed about the whole Bond Air incident. Wasn't at all pleased you'd brought him to heel."

"Ah," Mycroft said. "No one saw fit to inform me he'd gone rogue."

"Very recent," Sherlock said. "I doubt they knew."

"You got him, though," Greg said.

Sherlock gave him his 'you are a moron' look. "Of course I got him. Mycroft's people have him now. I expect the Americans will be very displeased with him."

Greg sighed his relief. "Thank god." He turned to Mycroft. "Bond Air?"

Mycroft started to shake his head, obviously not intending to tell him about it, but Sherlock blathered on anyway. "Mycroft's answer to the Coventry dilemma. A plane full of dead bodies, destined to be bombed by terrorists."

"That was what went wrong, that night you left," Greg said. "They figured out somehow that you knew."

Mycroft nodded. "Moriarty's doing," he said, his voice angry and bitter. "We lost several agents, and years of work." He shot a look at Sherlock and Sherlock's eyes lowered, abashed.

"Was that what the bloke in the car boot, with the ticket to Dusseldorf, was about?" Greg asked, suddenly seeing a few things much more clearly.

"Yes," Mycroft said. "That project was one of our successes." He looked back over at Sherlock. "Do you have anything else for me?"

"No." Sherlock glanced at Greg before he turned to go. "It would have been quite tedious to bury my brother, Lestrade."

Neither Greg nor Mycroft responded as Sherlock swept from the room, his coat billowing out behind him. Greg shook his head, still a bit stunned, as he heard the door of the flat close.

"And that," Mycroft said, quiet, "is as close as you're going to get to thanks from him."

"Yeah," Greg said, shaking his head in disbelief. "When did my life get this bloody mad? Rogue CIA agents trying to assassinate my boyfriend, insane criminal masterminds able to break into the Tower of London, covert operations involving planes filled with dead bodies."

"When you let a Holmes into it, I'm afraid," Mycroft said. "Do you regret it?" There was a bare hint of anxiety in his voice.

Greg's head whipped around from where he'd been staring after Sherlock. "No. God, no, Mycroft. Not for a second." He lay back down next to Mycroft and held him. "I was scared out of my mind seeing you lying there all bloody and not knowing if you were even alive, but no, I wouldn't trade any of it." He buried his face in Mycroft's neck and murmured, "Never."

Mycroft curled up around him, warm and close and _alive_ and Greg breathed him in. "You truly are extraordinary," Mycroft whispered.

***

The verdict was not unexpected. Mycroft knew that Moriarty would never have allowed himself to be taken by the police without a plan in place. The form was slightly unexpected, but the result was not. Mycroft folded the paper and set it down on the side table, steepling his fingers and staring at the dark, panelled wall of the Diogenes Club's main sitting room.

The jury had obviously been tampered with; it wouldn't be hard for a man of Moriarty's talents. He'd got into three of the most secure places in London, after all. Threatening twelve ordinary people would be breathtakingly simple. Sherlock's options for dealing with him were narrowing rapidly, and Mycroft could feel something immense coming, the shark beneath the boat, its fin not yet breaking the surface. Moriarty obviously wanted Sherlock dead, but humiliation would come first. The man wasn't about to allow Sherlock to die a martyr; martyrs drew people to their cause. 

Moriarty wanted Sherlock to suffer, to die with a shattered reputation. Mycroft had always known that this meant those closest to Sherlock were targets, but were they to be humiliated as well, rather than simply eliminated? He would have to meet with his brother, soon, and discuss the probabilities.

***

The 'exposé' in _The Sun_ was what finally tipped the collapsing situation into chaos. Greg had called Sherlock in on a kidnapping case the same afternoon because he'd been specifically requested by the U.S. Ambassador. The next day, the children had been recovered, but the girl, on seeing Sherlock, began to scream.

Later that night, Donovan and Anderson came to him suggesting that Sherlock had set the crime up, that Sherlock was somehow behind not only the kidnapping, but pretty much every crime he'd helped investigate. Greg had seen too much to believe it. He knew about Moriarty, after all, but they were pushing. Greg finally agreed to go himself and ask Sherlock to come down to NSY for questioning, but Sherlock refused.

When he got back, the Chief Super called Greg on the carpet. Both Donovan and Anderson were there with him, and Greg knew this was it. Things fell apart fast and Greg was ordered to go bring Sherlock in. He lagged behind for a moment when the others left, making sure no one watched as he called John to warn him that they were on their way. Illegal as all hell and, ultimately, useless. He couldn't do much more than that, but he did make a fast call to Mycroft as well.

"It's coming down, Mycroft. They're sending me to arrest Sherlock. I warned him we were on the way. There's nothing at all I can do to stop it now."

Mycroft's voice sounded troubled. "You've done everything possible, then."

"Yeah. God. This is going to blow up in my face." He saw other people entering the corridor, joining the group going to Baker Street. "I have to go."

An hour later, Sherlock and John were on the run and Greg's career was pretty much over. Oh, yeah, he'd occupy an office for a little longer, but the odds of him getting out of this without being put in a prison cell next to Sherlock and John were at about nil. He was well and truly fucked.

***

Mycroft hadn't anticipated the speed with which the situation would deteriorate. Moriarty had planned things brilliantly. Sherlock was aware of what Mycroft had given to Moriarty; it had been a part of their plan to draw him out, to try to contain him. Mycroft's ultimate goal had been the key code, and Sherlock had agreed to help on it, but this was swiftly unravelling.

Sherlock was off on his own, John was furious, and both of them were on the run from Greg, who had absolutely no choice about pursuing them. Mycroft was working on contingency plans to get his lover out of harm's way, but he wasn't certain how he and Sherlock were going to be able to salvage the situation without considerably more time on their side. The possibility that Sherlock would have to disappear was becoming more likely by the minute.

***

Greg came to Mycroft's flat late that night. The look in his eyes was one of absolute devastation. Mycroft had been sitting on the sofa, working on a file. He got up to meet him as he took his coat off and hung it in the closet. "Greg."

Greg looked up at him. "I'm done for," he said, his voice shaking. "I'm completely fucked." Mycroft stopped, shocked. "Nothing in the world is going to save my job now, and once the inquest is over, I'll end up in prison over this. I might as well eat that bloody gun you handed me."

" _No_ ," Mycroft said, sharp and clear. He grabbed Greg by his arms and looked him in the eyes. "I won't hear you talk like that. _Never_ say that. Have you any idea what losing you would do to me? There will be a way to deal with this that does not involve that sort of idiotically drastic action. Tell me what happened, Greg." Mycroft's heart rattled in his chest, fast and jittery.

"I can't find them, Mycroft. That madman, Moriarty, is out there somewhere," Greg gestured toward the door, his arm making a wide arc, "and there is not one bloody thing I can do to help your brother now. Hell, I can't even help myself at this point. Once Donovan and Anderson told the Chief Superintendent about the way Sherlock's been involved with our cases -- with _my_ cases -- there was no way to stop him coming down on me."

Greg's expression was close to frantic. "I told you years ago that Sherlock was going to be the end of me, and here it is. And it hasn't just done me in, I managed to take all my people down with me, for turning a blind eye to it. The whole Met is going to blow up -- it's going to be a huge bloody public scandal because what I've been doing is _illegal_. Not only has letting Sherlock onto my crime scenes without proper authorisation been illegal, I have covered up for John killing a man. _I covered up a murder, Mycroft_. Before all this happened, I could at least claim that solving the crimes was more important than the letter of the regulations but this?" He shook his head and cast his eyes down. "This--"

Mycroft spoke before Greg could continue. "I remember, yes, but I also recall telling you that if you were ever in trouble with the Met because of Sherlock, I would give you something else to do. You won't have to worry if you lose your job. I can mitigate this."

"It won't matter if I'm in prison, now, will it?" Greg shouted, looking back up at him. He took a breath and his next words were much quieter. "I might as well be radioactive right now, Mycroft. You've got enough trouble with the lies Moriarty's spread about your brother, and the fact that he's currently wanted on suspicion in a list of felonies as long as my arm. You don't need me mucking about with your reputation, too. I am a scandal waiting to break, and that'll take you down, too. I won't have it. Just let me walk away. I don't care what you tell people, as long as it doesn't get you into even more trouble." Greg was trying to throw himself on a grenade for him and Mycroft wanted to strangle Moriarty personally for what he'd done to Greg, for causing him to even contemplate killing himself.

"I promised you that I would take care of you, Greg," Mycroft said, quiet and intense. His heart was racing in near-panic and he knew that he had to salvage this. If Greg left tonight, there was a good chance he would never see him again, and that was completely unacceptable. He would never allow Gregory to be harmed. Never. "I will not allow you to be imprisoned. _It will not happen_."

Greg shook his head. "That far above the law, are you?" he asked, bitter.

"In this particular case, yes." Mycroft took a deep, shaky breath and tugged Greg into his arms; Greg held on, clinging to him tightly. "I can't lose you," he whispered. "This is difficult enough, not knowing for certain what will happen to Sherlock. I cannot let you walk away from me. I will do _anything_ for you. I will move heaven and earth for you but, for god's sake, stay with me. Let me help you."

He could feel Greg's ragged breathing as he held him. Mycroft raised one hand, drifting it slowly up Greg's back, over his neck, into his hair. "I love you, Greg. Please, I can protect you; let me. Please, let me." Greg nodded, his chin bobbing on Mycroft's shoulder, but he didn't speak. "Whatever happens," Mycroft said softly, "I will take care of you. I promised you that years ago and I will not fail you now. Trust me." Mycroft was already running a list of debts and favours he would need to call in to deal with this, and he would use every one of them without the slightest hint of regret. If he could forestall Greg's dismissal, he would do that, as well.

"All right," Greg murmured. "All right." He sounded like he'd just given up, flat and exhausted and empty. It was frightening. "I have to, don't I?" His fingers tightened in the back of Mycroft's waistcoat and he shuddered.

"I'll see to it that your co-workers are dealt with," Mycroft said. Everyone who had a hand in making Greg despair like this would feel Mycroft's wrath.

Greg shook his head. "No. You'll do nothing at all to them. They did what they had to, what I'd have done in their place if I didn't know Sherlock as well as I do. And believe me, they'll suffer for it anyway because, even in a situation like this, you don't turn on your own people. No one will trust them again, and they'll be under investigation just as I will. They shot down their own careers along with mine when they turned me in. It wasn't something they wanted to do. They've never had it in for me."

"All right. I'll let it go," he said, reluctant. Mycroft ran his hand gently from Greg's hair down to his cheek and turned Greg's face to his. He kissed him, slow and careful, knowing how fragile things were between them right now, but needing Greg more than he could express. Greg's breath hitched, then he leaned into the kiss, into Mycroft's body, welcoming the contact; Mycroft could only respond with the intensity of his need for this man. Finally, breathless, they looked into one another's eyes. "It's very late," Mycroft said. "Let me take you to bed."

Greg ran his thumb over Mycroft's lower lip; it tickled slightly, sending sparks through him. "God, Mycroft, I just want to forget this day ever happened." Mycroft lowered his mouth over Greg's thumb and sucked on it. Greg's eyes closed and he shivered, a tiny shimmer of movement, felt rather than seen. He pulled back and kissed the pad of Greg's thumb.

"Come with me. Perhaps I can help with that." With one arm around Greg's waist, he led him back to the bedroom.

They were silent as they undressed one another; Mycroft kissed Greg over and over until his lover was breathless, lying on his back on the bed. They moved slowly and Mycroft put every bit of his not inconsiderable focus into driving all thoughts but one from Greg's mind.

The slip of flesh on flesh and the sound of Greg's rough breath were all Mycroft heard. Greg yielded to him completely, mouth opening to his tongue, moving under his body. Slow strokes of Mycroft's hands covered Greg's skin, shoulders to hips, along the curve of his ribs, over the firm muscle of his thighs. Greg's back arched as Mycroft rocked his hips between Greg's thighs, and Greg's breathing quickened.

Mycroft sucked at the thin skin of his throat and Greg made a sharp, broken sound, his cock growing against Mycroft's groin. "Please," Greg gasped.

Greg ran his hands down Mycroft's arms, from shoulders to elbows, his touch leaving a trail of electricity behind it. "What do you need?" Mycroft sucked on his earlobe and Greg shivered, one leg curving up and around Mycroft's hip, warm and close.

Greg's answering moan was low and rough and it took him a moment to gather enough breath to speak. "Fuck me," he said. "I need to feel you." He held Mycroft closer, grinding against him, hard and hot.

The thought made Mycroft dizzy. Greg usually topped and Mycroft preferred it that way, but he was more than happy to give his lover what he needed, what he wanted. "Yes," he whispered, "yes. Whatever you need."

"You, love. I need you." Greg's voice shook as he spoke, digging his fingers into Mycroft's hair and pulling him down into a slow, searing kiss. Mycroft's entire body responded, ablaze with his arousal, suddenly utterly desperate for his lover's surrender.

"Yes," he said again, reaching over to the bedside table and tugging the drawer open. He groped around inside as he kissed Greg's face, his lips moving over Greg's stubbled jaw, his thin, soft eyelids, the strong curve of his forehead. He found the small bottle of lubricant and a condom among the loose items there and Greg took them from him, ripping the packet open with his teeth before he reached down between them and took Mycroft's hard shaft in his hand. Mycroft's breath shuddered as Greg squeezed and stroked him, rolling it onto him with a long, slow glide of his fist. It left Mycroft panting, eyes half closed as he tried to control his need.

A moment later, Greg had spread lube along the length of him and Mycroft asked, "Do you want--"

"Now, Mycroft, like this, please."

Mycroft slid an arm under Greg's knee and pulled his leg up, opening him wide, while Greg's hand guided him; he pushed, slow and gentle, sliding into his lover. Greg made a small 'ohh' sound as Mycroft entered him, then slid both hands up through the hair on Mycroft's chest. His body was hot and tight and it took all of Mycroft's control to just keep moving slowly, sinking all the way in. Greg was panting, "Yes, yes, god yes," his eyes closed, head thrown back. Mycroft kissed his neck, licking and sucking as his hips rocked back and forth, unhurried.

Greg felt so good, wrapped around Mycroft's body, around his cock, around his heart, and god he was so in love it was frightening. The only sounds Greg made for a long time were small, quiet moans, and harsh breathing. He shuddered under Mycroft and, eventually, opened his eyes. They were so dark, that deep brown, nearly black, and the depth of them had always drawn Mycroft in. He couldn't look away; the need there burned into him and he whispered, "I'll never let go, never."

"Mycroft." Greg turned his name into something astonishing, beautiful and desperate, looking at him like he was some kind of miracle. His body moved beneath Mycroft, pushing for more, begging for deeper and faster and harder, but Mycroft held back, taking Greg apart with each slow, languid thrust. The leg Greg had wrapped around Mycroft's waist moved, caressing his lower back and his arse, pulling him in further. Mycroft closed his eyes and exhaled, letting everything out as he shifted the angle of his thrusts and the intensity of the sensations; he could feel everything. Greg gasped and went rigid under him, then convulsed, his fingers tightening on Mycroft's shoulders, groaning as he came.

Mycroft held on through it, keeping up his slow, steady rhythm, feeling Greg's body tighten around him and shivering with it. He buried his face in the curve of Greg's neck, breathing him in, one hand stroking his side to gentle him through the peak and down the other side. Mycroft was close, tingling with it, almost dizzy with his own need.

"God. Oh, god." Greg was panting again, eyes still closed. His legs trembled as the wave passed, and Mycroft ground himself into Greg's body, needing to feel him, to feel how he'd gone lax and soft and pliant. He kissed Greg, pushing his tongue into his lover's mouth, and Greg sucked it, moaning. That, and the tightness of Greg's body around his cock brought him to the edge. Greg's hand caressing his chest, fingers tightening around one nipple to pinch and twist, finally dropped him into the abyss of his own finish. It rolled through him, blazing, breathless and blinding, and he shuddered between Greg's legs, his mind blissfully still.

They lay gasping in one another's arms, momentarily too weak to move, trembling in the aftershocks of their pleasure. After a few minutes, Mycroft found the strength to shift his weight, and he slipped out of Greg's body and rolled onto his side. He tugged the condom off and disposed of it, then took Greg in his arms again. "How are you?" he asked, quiet in the darkness. Greg kissed him.

"How do you do this to me?" Greg murmured, ending the question with another soft brush of his lips. His eyes were heavy and tired, but he looked much better and far more relaxed.

"I could ask the same of you," Mycroft said, smiling at him. Because Greg had done something to him, somewhere along the way. He'd got in behind every barrier Mycroft had ever erected, every wall, and Mycroft was glad he'd done so. Greg left him feeling helpless and completely over his head, but their relationship had made him genuinely happy for the first time in his life. He traced fingers over Greg's sweat-slicked skin until Greg took his hand and knotted their fingers together.

"I don't know what I'd do without you."

"I'll take care of you," Mycroft whispered. "I will."

Greg nodded. "I know."

***

Mycroft woke to find Greg sitting up next to him in the bed, watching him silently. Mycroft's arm was draped over Greg's leg and his head was resting on his thigh, so they'd been like that for quite some time. "Greg?" he said, his voice still rough with sleep.

"I'm sorry," Greg said. "About last night. I know I scared you."

There was no use denying it. Mycroft wedged himself up a bit to sit with Greg and nodded his head. "Yes, you did. But I'm glad you came to me rather than acting on your despair."

"You have enough to worry about without me adding to it."

Mycroft sighed and took Greg in his arms; Greg rested his head on Mycroft's shoulder. It was obvious he'd not got any sleep last night. "I already worry about you, my dear. With Moriarty out there and Sherlock currently missing, I am, admittedly, worrying more than usual about personal issues." He rested his chin atop Greg's head, holding him close. "The situation is a difficult one but, even if you are dismissed, once Sherlock's name is cleared we can have you reinstated. There is absolutely no way I will allow you to see the inside of a prison cell, Gregory. It will not happen."

"Sometimes you scare the hell out of me, Mycroft. I'm in this so deep I can't even see the surface and I'm at a loss for what to do. The power you have is... at this point I don't think I can imagine it. I'm not sure I ever could." He moved his head and looked in Mycroft's eyes. "If you ever break up with me, am I going to have to worry about assassins?" Mycroft could see he was only half-kidding.

"No, of course not. At the moment, I can't think of any situation in which I would want you to leave me. Even if we did eventually part company, I wouldn't want to see you hurt. I hope you know that."

"I do, yeah. It's just, sometimes I can't quite believe that I'm with you. I don't know what you'd want with someone like me, especially now, when I'm a danger to you. When I'm bloody useless because I can't help your brother. Last night, I just couldn't see a way out of it."

"Is it really so hard to imagine that you might make me happy? You do." Mycroft shook his head and took Greg's hand. "As to what you'll do, you will do as you've always done. You'll get up and you'll go in to work, and you'll be careful and take care of yourself. For the moment, you are the person who stands the best chance of helping Sherlock and John if the police come into contact with them before Moriarty's dealt with. You will be what you have always been -- the voice of reason in an unreasonable situation. I have great faith in you."

Greg's fingers tightened around Mycroft's hand. "I may only be in a position to do anything like that for another few days. Once they have Sherlock, I'm going to be suspended pending the inquiry. I'm surprised I haven't been already."

"A few days are all we'll need. We're in the endgame now. Unless Sherlock contacts me, I can't help him. I have measures prepared, but I must wait for word from him before I can enact them. Right now, it's all down to Sherlock." Mycroft felt more anxiety over the situation than he liked. He was reduced to three plans now, and that was entirely too few.

"You're right. It's really all I can do." Greg looked thoughtful, though he still seemed out of sorts.

Mycroft drew Greg's hand to his lips and kissed it. "I'd like it very much if you would come live with me. If things go badly, you'd be safer here, though that is by no means the only reason I want you here." It was the logical solution to a number of Mycroft's concerns, and it had got to the point where he slept considerably better when Greg was with him. It was past time when he should have asked.

Greg's eyebrows went up; he was obviously surprised, but Mycroft didn't read anything negative in his expression or in the way Greg leaned in closer to him. "Yeah," Greg said. "I'd been... well, I'd been thinking about it, wanting to be with you, but I couldn't exactly invite myself to live here, and there was no way I was going to ask you to come to mine and stay."

Mycroft smiled and nodded. "Of course. Quite understandable. And thank you, Greg. It will allow me to rest much more easily, knowing you'll be here. The thought of coming home to you at the end of my day is one that pleases me greatly."

"I love you, too." Greg managed a smile despite his obvious concern about his upcoming day. He tilted his head and kissed Mycroft, a soft press of lips, before he got out of bed. "I've got to get moving. With all the trouble I'm in, wouldn't do for me to be late."

Mycroft got up as well. "Shall I arrange to have your things moved?"

"You can...? No, of course you can. Yeah, sure. Have your people do that." It would be one less thing Greg had to worry about, and Mycroft knew his people would deal with it quickly and efficiently.

"It should be taken care of by tonight."

"Then I'll come home here when I'm done at work today." Greg took Mycroft's hand and pulled him away to shower together.

***

The phone call from Ms Hooper at St Bartholomew's asking him to come and identify his brother's body was a shock. While faking a death had been one of the potential remaining options, there had been a plan for it, and it didn't involve a phone call from Ms Hooper.

Mycroft's head spun as he walked into the morgue. He wouldn't believe anything until he'd actually seen Sherlock. His brother was far too clever. Unless he touched his brother's cold, dead body, he was not going to accept the situation. It was unthinkable.

When he entered, Ms Hooper looked up from her work: a body on the table before her, too short to be Sherlock's. "He's here," she said.

Sherlock rose from where he'd been sitting on the floor, unseen. Mycroft put a hand on a counter to steady himself. "Thank god." Relief flooded him, dizzying in its intensity.

"I didn't think you'd be quite so affected, brother," Sherlock said. "Moriarty's dead. I had an unfortunate change in plans." Mycroft stood where he was and looked at him, resisting an urge to touch him. Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. "This has some necessary information on it. I'm going to have to disappear for a bit. You'll need to sign the paperwork, of course."

"Of course. And Moriarty?"

Molly stepped away from the body she'd been dealing with, giving him a clear view of it. "Here, Mr Holmes." Mycroft walked over and looked down. Single shot to the head, entry point through the soft palate. It was rather messy.

"Good," Mycroft said. "We'll need to put him away for a while. It may be necessary to produce his body at some point."

Sherlock nodded. "Agreed."

"What did you learn, and why was this particular plan needed?" His irritation at Sherlock's deviating from their script was beginning to surface.

"Had I not done this, John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade would be dead right now."

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment, his chest tightening. He took a deep breath and opened them again. "Thank you, then. I do believe that outweighs any issues I might have had regarding your acting without previously informing me. I suppose none of them have been told, as yet."

"They can't be, for the moment. Moriarty knew that The Woman had faked her death; I'm sure he had his people informed that I might do so, as well. If I'm to carry out my work, they can't be told until after the funeral, earliest. John, possibly not at all."

Mycroft sighed. "We shouldn't hold the rest of this conversation here."

Sherlock turned to Ms Hooper and took her hand. "Thank you, Molly. You have been invaluable." He leaned down and kissed her cheek.

"You can always count on me," she said, pulling an unresisting Sherlock into a hug.

***

Greg's day had started out badly enough, but the phone call informing him of Sherlock's suicide hit like a lorry running a stoplight. It knocked the breath out of him. He buried his face in his hands, too numb to even think. He was too numb for tears, too dizzy, too nauseous.

It was twenty minutes before his brain started working again, and the first thing he thought of was Mycroft. Christ, he'd be a mess. And John, who had apparently seen the whole thing, watched his best friend jump from a building, seen his battered body on the pavement. It was inconceivable. Greg wondered when he'd wake up from the nightmare.

When he'd caught his breath and picked up his mobile, about to call Mycroft, there was a knock on his office door. He was called up to the Chief Superintendent's office and told he was being suspended pending an investigation into his dealings with Sherlock; after all the necessary paperwork had been done, he could pick up his personal items and leave. "You're lucky I'm not having you arrested right here and now; now, get out."

Hopeless and at loose ends, Greg found himself with a small bag of his things in hand, walking to the underground station. He moved on autopilot, through a haze, remembering only just before he got on the train that he wasn't supposed to go back to his own flat. Everything he owned was probably at Mycroft's already. His new home. He'd agreed to it just that morning, and it already seemed like weeks ago. Or maybe that none of it had happened at all. He couldn't tell.

He waited for the right train, pulled his mobile out of his pocket, and rang Mycroft. There was no answer. He left a voicemail saying, "Mycroft, I'm on my way home. Please, tell me where you are. Let me know you're all right." There was no need to say anything else.

When he arrived, no one was there. He hadn't really expected Mycroft to be home yet; he was probably still dealing with the repercussions of Sherlock's death. Paperwork. Arrangements for the body, for a funeral. Dealing with a will, if there was one. Greg dropped the bag from his office on the coffee table and went to stare out the windows over the park, silent and unable to function.

The sun had slid farther down the sky toward the horizon by the time Greg was able to think again, and Mycroft had still not rung him. He called Anthea. "He's dealing with the aftermath of his brother's death, Detective Inspector."

"Yeah, that," Greg said. "I've been suspended. Was expecting it, but it's just Greg now."

"I'm sorry. I'm sure Mr Holmes will be home soon."

"Yeah, right. Thanks." He pocketed his mobile again and leaned against the window, supported by one palm. The glass was cold, leaching the heat from his hand. Greg barely felt it.

As the day faded into dusk, Greg heard the door open. He went to meet Mycroft, pulling himself together enough to face whatever was about to happen. Greg may have lost a friend, but Mycroft had lost his brother, whom he'd loved and tried to take care of all his life. Greg knew exactly how that felt.

Mycroft said nothing. His face was closed and Greg thought he might as well be made of ice for all he was showing. It was never good when Mycroft was like that. Greg didn't ask any questions, didn't say anything, he just went to Mycroft and took him in his arms. Mycroft let him, and returned the embrace, standing there leaning into Greg, clinging to him.

Eventually, Greg felt Mycroft's hands moving on his back, slow and careful. "Come sit with me, love," Greg said, and he led Mycroft to the sofa. He sat back against the arm of it, dragging one leg up to rest against the backrest and tugged Mycroft down, his back to Greg's chest. He held Mycroft to him, his chin perched on Mycroft's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Mycroft didn't speak at all until the next day. Greg tried to draw Mycroft out, even though he was hurting as well, but Mycroft remained cold and distant unless he was sitting with Greg and holding him. Greg tried talking to John, but John wouldn't speak to him at all. He'd gone to Baker Street to try and see him, but John had slammed the door in his face; he'd looked broken. Greg couldn't really blame him. Mrs Hudson had cried on his shoulder and sympathized over his suspension, and having at least a little conversation about it helped a bit. He had to let Mycroft get through it as best he could and just be there in case he was actually needed.

It wasn't until a couple of days later, some hours after they got home to Mycroft's country house from the funeral, that Mycroft spoke more than two words at a time to him. "I'm sorry we've had to do this, Greg," he said. "I know how difficult this has been."

"You can always talk to me, Mycroft. You know that. You don't have to apologise; your brother died, and that's enough to do anybody in for a while." He got up from the dining table, where he'd been sipping some coffee, and put an arm around Mycroft's waist as they stood at the window.

Mycroft looked at him. "Come into my office, Greg. We need to talk." Greg nodded and took his hand, following him through the house. "We need your help."

"We? We who?"

Mycroft opened his office door. There, sitting behind his desk, was Sherlock, a bit bruised but otherwise looking as though nothing much had happened. Greg stopped still in the doorway. "Sherlock and I," Mycroft answered.

Fury sparked in Greg's chest and he started into the room intent on decking Sherlock, only to be held back by Mycroft's hand. "What the _hell_ did you think you were doing, Sherlock? Letting us think you were dead!"

"Mycroft knew right away that I was not," Sherlock answered.

"Allow us to explain," Mycroft said. "Please, Greg. It was not supposed to have happened this way. Things got out of hand. Plans had to be changed without notice."

It was only years of being around the brothers and knowing how they were that allowed him to let go of the worst of his anger, to just take a breath and ask, "All right, what's going on, then?" He reminded himself that he loved Mycroft, that he trusted him, and that there had to be a reason for this. "You haven't been here this whole time, have you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snapped. "Even you are not that stupid."

"Greg, you need to listen to this." Mycroft held up a mobile. Sherlock's mobile. "It will explain a great deal about what happened that day." He opened a recording and set it on the desk. Two voices spoke.

Sherlock, and Moriarty. Greg stood frozen, listening in growing horror.

_"I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity."_

_"Oh, just kill yourself. It’s a lot less effort. Go on. For me. Pleeeeeease?"_

_"You’re insane."_

_"You’re just getting that now? Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don’t."_

_"John."_

_"Not just John. Everyone."_

_"Mrs Hudson."_

__"Everyone." __

_"Lestrade."_

_"Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There’s no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump. You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me, but nothing’s gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die ... unless …"_

_"... unless I kill myself – complete your story."_

_"You’ve gotta admit, that’s sexier."_

_"And I die in disgrace."_

_Of_ course _. That’s the_ point _of this._

Mycroft ended the playback. Greg couldn't breathe. He felt Mycroft's arm around him, keeping him upright. "Greg?"

"I'm all right," he said; it wasn't quite a lie. He'd be all right once he caught his breath.

Sherlock nodded. "So, as you can see, I had to improvise."

"Improvise," Greg echoed, still reeling.

"Moriarty shot himself, taking away any possibility of my having him call off his assassins. He left me with no choice." Sherlock locked eyes with him. "It was me, or you. And John. And Mrs Hudson."

Greg swallowed, finding his voice again. "Thank you."

Sherlock shrugged. "I couldn't let you be shot any more than I could have let you drown in the Thames that day. It would have been inconvenient." Greg took the words for what they meant, rather than what they sounded like.

Mycroft frowned at him. "Sherlock."

"And this was why you and Mycroft were fighting all the time."

"Yes," Mycroft said. "If Sherlock's plans had fallen through, I would still be able to act, to dismantle Moriarty's organization and to have him eliminated."

"Exactly," Sherlock said. He turned to Mycroft. "And Moran?"

"Still believes I'm unaware that he's infiltrated. We'll be able to use him, as we discussed." Mycroft moved to pull a chair away from his desk and gestured for Greg to sit. He did, then Mycroft did as well. "There's a great deal to do, Sherlock."

"So have you told John you're alive?" Greg asked.

Mycroft and Sherlock both looked at him. "No," Sherlock said. "He's being watched, as is Mrs Hudson."

"And I'm not?" Greg found that surprising.

"You are, but no one will question your disappearance from public view. You've been suspended, disgraced. _Of course_ Mycroft would take steps to hide you from the consequences of your actions. If he were any more absurdly in love with you, his head would explode." Sherlock sounded, as usual, as though Greg couldn't string two thoughts together. "We do, however, need your help."

He supposed he shouldn't be so surprised that Sherlock would be cavalier about his brother's being in love. "That's what Mycroft said a few minutes ago. When have you ever needed my help, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes lowered to Mycroft's desk. "Always, Greg," he murmured. He looked up again. "Much as I am loath to admit it, I wouldn't be here without your help."

That, Greg thought, was possibly the most shocking thing he'd ever heard out of Sherlock's mouth. "Thanks," he whispered, wondering if acknowledging the words would somehow make them vanish, remove them from history.

Mycroft continued the conversation, one hand on Greg's arm. "If John were aware that Sherlock still lives, it would be impossible to stop him from attempting to help. That, however, would alert what remains of Moriarty's -- now Moran's -- organization to Sherlock's presence. And that, I'm afraid, would make it extremely difficult for us to put an end to it."

"Who's this Moran character?" Greg asked.

"Sebastian Moran, a former Army colonel. Until Moriarty's recent demise, he was his second in command. He's currently a highly placed MI-6 operative." Mycroft's fingers squeezed Greg's arm gently. "Don't worry, he's being very closely monitored."

"Well, what do you want with me? What could I possibly do?"

"There are any number of roles you will be able to fulfil, Greg," Mycroft said. "We wouldn't ask you if you were not needed. Believe me, I'd rather not deliberately place you in harm's way."

"So," Sherlock said, leaning toward Greg, resting his elbows on Mycroft's desk, "how would you like to help me destroy Moriarty's global criminal organization? Clear my name, and yours?"

Greg felt a fierce excitement growing in him, the light of possibility and redemption glowing, brilliant, before him, and he grinned. "Try to stop me."

~~fin~~


End file.
